


Human Error

by ValarMorghulis508



Series: Only Human [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Consensual Kink, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Drug Withdrawal, Drugs, Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, Implied Relationships, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Light BDSM, M/M, Military Kink, Past Drug Use, References to Drugs, Roleplay, Season 3 AU, Spooning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-06
Updated: 2015-05-07
Packaged: 2018-03-29 07:27:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 27
Words: 59,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3887515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ValarMorghulis508/pseuds/ValarMorghulis508
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>COMPLETE: After a honeymoon filled with thoughts of Sherlock, John Watson returns to London to find the detective indulging unsavoury habits. When Sherlock reveals Mary’s true nature to John and he abandons her, she responds by needling every pressure point her husband has in a desperate bid to bring him back. Just how far will she go? Will our favourite duo’s unfolding relationship buckle?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It was just short of three hours from the church in Somerset to Brighton. Mycroft had organised and paid for the limo from the ceremony and back to London as an apology for not coming to the wedding. Not that John had complained, he didn't really want him there in the first place, the ghoul; getting the transport had only sweetened the deal, though he had suspected Sherlock may have talked him into it. They had left straight from the reception to the retreat in Brighton for, what John had suspected, a long night’s sleep. No one ever tells you that. It's all romanticised. "Spending your first night together as husband and wife" but in reality he was too buggered from the events of the day.

He'd imagine that Mary wouldn't be up for anything either. She had fallen asleep before they had even left Somerset. She had obviously worked herself into a fluster planning and organising the wedding and the incredible come-down had left her utterly knackered. She could use it though.

Her and the baby.

Damn it. Why had Sherlock dropped that on them when he did? He could have waited until they at least got back and not leave them thinking about it during their honeymoon. It's not like it wasn't exciting. John had always wanted this, hadn't he? A beautiful wife, a stable job at a surgery, a charming townhouse flat and now a baby on the way? He had to admit it was all happening rather quickly. Perhaps that was the cause for the butterflies.

As Mary snored delicately on his shoulder, John listened to the rain softly patter on the roof of the limo as they drove off into the night. Is that why Sherlock had left early? John looked all over for him before they did the big send off but he was no where to be found. He had heard from one of the waitstaff that he'd left shortly after the first dance. He probably couldn't handle the mingling and smiled gently as he remembered Sherlock making up lame excuses for not coming to a birthday gathering of his a few years back. The smile had left as soon as it came though when that brought back another memory of Greg bringing over an uncut version of that lame-excuse video Sherlock had made for him and where he had been when he'd watched it.

He slid down in his chair, trying his best not to disturb his slumbering wife and tried to catch a few winks himself. His mind travelled to the earlier events of the evening. The ceremony, the photos, the food he never got to try. A smile crossed his face as he reflected on Sherlock’s speech. For someone not particularly gifted with sentiment, he had done a remarkable job. Molly had even come up to confess that she had been deathly worried that Sherlock was going to ruin the day with some awful thing but he didn’t. He really pulled through.

_Today you sit between the woman you have made your wife and the man you have saved. In short, the two people who love you most in all this world. I know I speak for Mary as well when I say we will never let you down and we have a lifetime ahead to prove that._

Blissfully, he even thought to Sherlock doing that ridiculous dance up and down the tables as he tried to solve a murder at his wedding. _His wedding_. Only Sherlock could recognise, deduce and solve a murder before it even happened. And only Sherlock could bring a murder to John’s wedding. He thought back to him mumbling and talking for the sake of talking. How that git loves the sound of his own voice. Once he had clearly stated ‘Vatican Cameos’, Sherlock had stolen all of John’s attention. He focused on every single detail of the detective in case there was a signal he needed to react to. John could see him slip to and from his mind palace as he pick apart the guests. He had always loved the man’s brilliance, especially in the height of danger. The only thing he could remember him saying though was ‘You. It’s always you, John Watson. You keep me right.”

That one sentence replayed in his mind as he tried to fall into a short slumber. He had tried everything to get the detective out of his head but usually, whenever he had tried, it was to no avail. He spent the whole drive trying to focus on Mary and the three weeks ahead of honeymoon ahead of him. There's no place for Sherlock here.

 

\-------------------

"I swear, Sherlock, if you're making this up -"

"I never create information, Graham. What would be the purpose?" He glanced up briefly at the Detective Inspector with a raised eyebrow. "There is sufficient data on the body to tell you everything you need to know and more. It's the latter that I'm interested in." Swiftly he turned back to the body and continued gathering data.

Lestrade let out a half infuriated sigh.

"It's Greg. You _know_ it’s Greg."

Sherlock barely seemed to register the remark. With a dramatic flourish he whisked the pocket magnifier from his coat, slid it open and returned his attention to the male body on the floor.

_Nails only slightly worn. Clean hairline. Callus on right index finger. Slightly faded tan line on left hand. Hairline is worn around the left wrist. Slight skin irritation around the back of the collar. Shoes are a quarter size too small._

"So he's homeless, yeah? Coroner confirmed the death as an overdose. I don't really see why you're interested actually. John said you'd never leave the house for - "

The detective cut him off coldly, looking over his shoulder towards the detective inspector but deliberately withholding eye contact.

"John's not here though is he, _Gavin_? He's off on his _sex holiday_ with _Mary_. Doesn't make him very helpful on cases and leaves me rather bored. Tedious. I gambled that this would turn out to be something worthy of my time and it is. The less I deal with the general public the better. At least Scotland Yard are useless enough to need help with actual investigations, not pedestrian housewife dramatics."

Lestrade shifted his weight and a fury started to rise in his voice. "How is this more - "

"He's not homeless. Well, he was but only in the last six or seven days. His nails were continually manicured on a regular basis but not recently. He only has a few days worth of facial hair. Tan line on the left hand indicates he was married for about 20 years but it's been removed recently as has the watch on his left wrist. Most likely sold to afford his new drug habit. The irritation on the back of his neck is his skin adjusting to a lower quality fabric so he clearly wore higher quality clothes on a regular basis, probably suits. I'd say security from the light callous on his right hand from a small firearm, not used enough for military or police work so security."

His eyes glittered. He had been hoping something may arise in one of these tiresome outings. Lestrade he could deal with, it was Anderson and Donovan, even being in the proximity that frustrated him. Trying to keep their little affair from the world but being so blatantly obvious about it. Why people even hide their true agenda was a mystery to the consulting detective. It’s ever so dull as it inevitably comes out in the end, regardless. Seems an awful lot of effort for no gain.

"There." Sherlock pointed triumphantly to the track marks running up the victim's arm. Lestrade knelt and ran his eyes up and down the damaged veins. It looked like every other overdose. Same pinpoint bruising. Same discolouration of the veins. His eyes stopped at once and squinted. Sherlock rolled his eyes and held the magnifier just above the lowest entry point. "You see that don't you?"

"What is that?" Lestrade would have missed it completely, but he'd never admit it, of course. It was only faint, but there was a small patch of deep red, almost completely hidden behind the bruising and damaged tissue. An abscess? Easily mistaken for a bruise itself if not for the injection site.

"Something has briefly contaminated the site. Any normal compound of cocaine couldn't have left these markings. There's nothing there that would react to the blood or skin. This compound has been laced with trace elements of cyanide with the _intent_ of causing death masked by an overdose. This man turned from something in his life that caused him to use again and again in a matter of days. Must have been something rather important but that’s dull. He doesn't matter. What matters is our new dealer."

\---------------------

He awoke mid morning in their seaside villa with his wife draped across his side of the bed. He could hear waves crashing some short distance from their windows and smell the sea air throughout the room. They had been here just a week and John had already felt homesick. Ready to return to London and back to regular life. He had never been good at holidays. He'd constantly obsess about the work load he was leaving behind or what waited for him when he returned. He'd hoped this would be different but it was worse than ever.

Its not as if he wasn't enjoying himself. The place they were staying was incredible. It had all sorts of facilities that they had already hurried to try out, like children in a candy shop. Mary had taken a particular liking to the spa and massage parlours. A few of the days had passed where he felt he hadn't even seen her. Perhaps that was what she needed. To get her head around the fact she was pregnant. _That word still felt alien to him_. She deserved a few days of pampering after all she had done. He found that he didn't mind. Not even in the slightest.

Though when she wasn't there his mind naturally sauntered its way to thinking of Sherlock and the guilt ate away at him like bacteria would on one of his absurd kitchen concoctions. He decided that he had earned himself a stroll along the beach and would leave Mary to her slumber. He dressed silently and journeyed down the lift and through the lobby. As he took not three steps towards the water, he took a step back, smiled, and asked himself why fate had decided to be so cruel.

Sitting on an old wooden bench in front of him, staring out to the open sea was his nightmare. Or he thought it should have been. If it had, why would he be smiling like this. He had half a mind to storm up to him and shove him straight onto his arse. That ridiculous long coat with the collar turned up. Those dark curls gently falling behind over his ears. He wondered what Sherlock's excuse would have been to follow them sixty-odd miles out of London. No doubt some elaborate case or a 'study' into the different consistency and colour of the pebbles on the different beaches of the south coast of England.

John stormed over to him, still unable to wipe that smile off his face and announced

"You couldn't even last _one_ week without - " and silence overcome him as he saw his face. It wasn't Sherlock. Just some stranger with a striking resemblance. "Oh, I'm sorry sir, I thought you were someone else." He laughed nervously and he hurried away before the flush in his face could overcome his entire body. He was _sure it was him._ John turned back as he walked and noticed _It doesn't really look like him at all. He's much shorter, his_ hair _is an entirely different shade and his body type is all wrong_. He didn't know why he didn't see it earlier. He tried to push it from his mind. He had made similar mistakes not too long ago when he went much more than a week without Sherlock.

Once he'd reached a safe distance from the poor fellow he had just near assaulted, he pulled out his phone with the intent of texting Sherlock for good measure. Just to make sure he hadn't followed him down and set up this elaborate ruse. He wouldn't put it past him for a moment. Half way through the message he stopped. _What am I doing_? Before deleting the whole thing and returning it to his pocket. He muttered under his breath "Right, that's enough fresh air for one day" and headed back to their room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is owned by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and the BBC. We are writing this to fulfil our own perverted desires and earn nothing from this fic other than satisfaction.


	2. Chapter 2

The previous fortnight had proven more insipid than earlier predicted. Sherlock lay across his lounge with his fingers pressed together and against his lips. He held his eyes softly closed and monitored his breathing. He picked through his mind palace trying to piece together a motive. Sherlock was.. regrettably not as good at picking human behaviour as he'd like. He excelled in facts. Emotions were human error.

 

Lestrade had raided no more than five known locations of dealers in the central London district against Sherlock's expressed instructions. Whoever this new dealer was they were clever. They weren't going to deal this new batch of coke out of any old hovel or bodies would be piling the streets and his cover would be blown. No this was something more. He had selected his victims carefully but why?

 

 _Assisted suicide? The ones that were truly depressed and wanting to leave this world entirely and not wanting to 'cause a fuss'_? No. The matching cases weren't consistent enough. Some of the victims were people of wealth that had had a very steep decline in behaviour and increase in drug use within a matter of days. The causes seemed to vary. Some obviously divorced. Some suffered from some financial crash. Whatever this had been, it had worked fast. Others seemed to be happy enough, if the family accounts alone were anything to go by. Sherlock suspected this was something similar to ..

 

And there it was. The cabbie. The pills. "A Study in Pink". The thought made his gut wrench and his brow furrow. He dropped his head to the right and opened his eyes. John would have some insight. He wasn't as completely useless as Scotland Yard and occasionally had something to input. But instead of his wise cracking blogger, he had an empty chair. What would happen after he came back? He wouldn't live here. No doubt he wouldn't assist in cases. He'd have _her._

 

He turned his head back and stared at the ceiling. His mind wasn't focused. He needed something. The three nicotine patches up his left forearm were proving useless. Tiresome. He would need something stronger.

 

The thought pained him. John would be disappointed if he _were_ to use anything. He would make that same disheartened face he did when he first learned that he had used in the past. Something about 'damaging brilliant cells' and 'throwing gifts away'. He didn't understand it how it had made Sherlock's intellect expand and contract at the same time. The way it made him tune out the rest of the world and pinpoint the exact particulars that he was looking for.

 

To hell with him. John had left to pursue selfish needs and desires so why couldn't he. John had 'needed' Mary and a tiresome suburban existence. Sherlock needed to find this dealer and for that to happen he needed to concentrate. He couldn't have John poking his little head where it wasn't needed anymore. John could at least be thankful that this was in pursuit of saving lives. Nonsense like that always made John feel better.

 

That was enough thinking about it. It had been weeks and bodies kept piling up with new but insufficient data. Sherlock gathered that simply using wasn't going to rearrange the information and give him an intellectual epiphany. He had to be engrossed by it. He needed to be among it. He needed to breathe it in. He needed to be inside and for it to be inside him.

 

\------------------------

 

It wasn't until they had passed Chiswick before he had realised his butterflies were back again and decided he was tired of trying to guess where they came from anymore. Mary was busy flipping through some celebrity gossip magazine opposite him and had left John to his silence. At least she was when he last looked. He glanced up at her and realised she was staring at him with raised eyebrows.

 

"I'm sorry, what?"

 

"I said did you want to grab lunch on the way in? We'll be there soon."

 

"Oh right. Um.. Yeah sure. Whatever you like, love."

 

She folded the magazine and put it by her side. She stood and manouvered her way through the vehicle till she was sitting right beside him. "I know you've been a little distant the last few weeks and I don't mind. The pregnancy is a big shock for both of us. When I was a kid, I remember my mum told me the dad wasn't himself for a whole month after she told him she was having me. So I get it. I understand it's a _big_ step. But there's no one I'd rather have by my side." She gave him a peck on the cheek and rested her head on his shoulder. He leant his head on hers and took her hands in his.

 

"Thank you Mary. It's not that I'm not happy or excited. I just don't quite know how to act at the moment."

 

"You don't need to act. Just be John. John Hamish Watson. My doctor and my blogger."

 

Come to think of it he hadn't so much as looked at the blog in three weeks. He hadn't heard from Sherlock at all. Not even a text. "That reminds me, better let Sherlock know we'll be back soon. He probably has a caseload of work for me to write up". He pulled his phone from his coat and typed, somewhat hesitantly.

 

_Almost back in London. Flat still in one piece? - JW_

 

He was almost surprised that he hadn't received an immediate reply. Sherlock kept his phone like an extra limb. He was never without it and commonly texted people directly in front of him to save him the burden of actually conversing with them. _He must be elbow deep in body parts or something, he told himself and left it at that._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is owned by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and the BBC. We are writing this to fulfil our own perverted desires and earn nothing from this fic other than satisfaction.


	3. Chapter 3

This hadn't been one of Sherlock's regular locations. Though he hadn't used in years - hadn't needed to - and these sorts of places often left as soon as they came. He had heard about this one from some of the people in his homeless network. Relatively new. Only a handful of 'regulars'. Perhaps this was the place. The other locations he'd scouted had been functioning since before the appearances of the abscess track marks. The newer ones didn't have the higher class clients the dealer seemed to target. Here, he could easily distinguish those that had 'fallen from grace' or were trying to disguise their higher status. Again he didn't care to waste any attention on the clients themselves. His only interest was who they were going to see.

 

He knocked on the door and waited. A young man with wide eyes opened it and quickly looked Sherlock up and down. Sherlock shifted his eyes "Come on man, I need to see him. I've heard about his _product_ ". The man glanced past him and hurried him through the door. Sherlock made sure to have some of his best out and clearly it had helped him. He bought a plain gold wedding band and a matching gold watch. He had styled his hair back and had worn a rather smart set of clothes and jacket. Not unlike his usual garb. He needed to 'blend in'.

 

As Sherlock casually glanced around the dank, poorly lit warehouse, the man found a space on a nearby mattress and dropped Sherlock down to sit on the edge, then left without another word. Sherlock started pulling crumpled notes out of his pockets and attempting to flatten them, counting on his fingers and staring into the distance.

 

A presence slithered to his side, just out of sight. It whispered "Need a fix?"

 

His voice was strained and husky. As if he had sustained an unseen injury and was trying to mask the pain under his breath. Sherlock had in fact expected him. His network had said no one gets anywhere without going through Vandal. He gives you a somewhat 'dirtier' blend to see if you can handle the more expensive or cleaner product. Don't want to waste the good stuff on those that can't come and buy more. Or don't deserve it. They think of it as an 'auditioning process'. Though Sherlock knew perfectly well how to play the part, he still needed to climb the ranks.

 

Sherlock stuttered and shook his hands with the telltale signs of withdrawal. He let out a quivering. "Yea - Yeah.." and handed over the cash. Vandal pocketed it and thrusted a small ziplock bag at Sherlock before scurrying back to the corner he came from.

 

Sherlock waited till Vandal had left and took a second glance to make sure no one was watching _him_. He could hear the whispers of the other inhabitants. The place was so quiet he could make out some of what they were saying upstairs. Of course they weren't watching him. They were here for the same thing that Sherlock was - almost. He held the bag up to the light coming through a small crack in a window and recognised it immediately. He opened it with somewhat shaking hands. His body preparing itself maybe? It knew as well as he what was coming. Sherlock gently slid a finger into the bag and withdrew it, examining the substance at the end before pressing it lightly to the end of his tongue then gingerly smelling it, searching for the bitter almond scent of cyanide. There was certainly no poison here. He was safe. Wasn't he?

 

\---------------------------------------------

 

It had only been a couple of days since he had texted Sherlock to no avail. He had been keeping busy enough since they had returned home, but bloody typical of Sherlock, he wouldn't get out of John’s head. He found himself worrying that something may have happened to the great git. Probably rubbed some serial killer up the wrong way or something. It wasn’t like him to not answer his texts. _There must be a good reason_ , he had decided. Perhaps texting for Sherlock was like Sherlock speaking. Once he had started on something, you couldn’t get him to shut up. But once he was silent he could be silent for days and barely move or make a sound. _That must be it. One of his ‘moments’_. He tried yet again to put Sherlock out of his mind, and returned to load the washing machine.

 

\---------------------------------------------

 

He hurried to remove his outer jacket and lay it neatly at his side, already mentally preparing for what was coming. He lay across the mattress with his back flat against the wall, tied the rubber strap around his forearm, held it in place with his teeth and watched as the veins began to rise. He had always had good veins. His median cubital had been a nice deep shade of blue that contrasted beautifully with his alabaster skin. He picked up the needle from beside him and stopped.

 

He stared down as the tourniquet brought his veins further and further to the surface. _Was it too late to turn back? What would John think of him?_ He pushed all thoughts of John from his head and plunged the needle home. He slowly reached a finger out and curled it around the head of the syringe as he pushed the substance inside of himself. His jaw dropped and the rubber fell from around his bicep. He pulled the needle out. It rolled through his fingers and dropped to the floor beside him. And for a moment, John was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is owned by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and the BBC. We are writing this to fulfil our own perverted desires and earn nothing from this fic other than satisfaction.


	4. Chapter 4

John lounged around the house, not really quite sure what to do with himself, especially as Mary was working for the better part of the day. It had come on half four and he wasn't sure where the day had gone. Mary would be finishing at six so that was at least another two hours, including the traffic back to their flat.

 

They had only come back earlier that week and he had spent most of it either at work, doing laundry from their time away, or filling out change of detail paperwork. Now that that was all done he had found himself rather _bored_.

 

Retrieving the laptop from the bedroom and allowing it to power up John made himself a cup of tea.It took him the better part of a minute before he realised he had set out two cups out of sheer habit. He frowned at the cup as if it was at fault for reminding him of what was missing. The kettle’s insistent whistling broke him from his staring contest and he shoved the cup back in the cupboard, focusing instead on the comforting routine of making tea.

 

The Detective was still on his mind when he settled back into his chair and after deciding against reading a novel while distracted he instead pulled up his blog and made a mental note to contact Sherlock about any new cases.

 

John sighed as he noted just how many messages and comments had accumulated during his absence. He let out a rather irritated exhale through gritted teeth and rolled his eyes. He should have known Sherlock wouldn't have gone near it. Though, if he hadn't been accepting cases from the site while he'd been away, what in god's name _had_ he been doing for the last three weeks?

 

 _Right_. He placed the laptop at his side and dug his phone from his back pocket and tried to call Sherlock. Not really expecting much, he let it ring out anyway. Nothing. He tried texting

 

_Back in London. Let me know when you need me - JW_

 

He let that have a few minutes. There's no chance Sherlock would ignore two of his texts. He waited and waited, holding the phone in his palm as if trying to summon some sort of response from Sherlock but nothing. He rolled his eyes and rose to his feet. Git was being stubborn. He dialed for Lestrade and waited impatiently for the detective to pick up.

 

"John! How was the honeymoon mate?” Lestrade seemed genuinely happy to hear from him which made John think that perhaps he needed to be a better friend and go to the pub more with the man.

 

“What? Oh yeah, good. Good.” John replied, waving away the niceties distractedly  “Greg, have you heard from Sherlock?”

 

“I haven’t actually. Well not since last weekend.”

“Last weekend?”

 

“Yeah he was helping me with a case. Well he said he was. Said I finally gave him something interesting and then didn’t hear from him again.”

 

“What case?”

 

“Some new drug dealer. Slipping cyanide into the cocaine.” Greg seemed to be reluctant to continue the conversation as he began to realise his mistake. Bracing himself he held the phone slightly away from his head, expecting a tirade of deserved chastisement from the man who had become Sherlock’s ‘keeper’.

 

John’s heart sank. No. He wouldn’t. How could the detective inspector be so oblivious? He knew about Sherlock’s struggle with addiction and had witnessed it first hand before John had even come on the scene!

 

“Greg, you left him unsupervised while working a drug investigation.” He felt the rage escalating his voice, “A _cocaine_ investigation? Have you even _tried_ contacting him?” He didn't give him the chance to respond and to Lestrade’s credit, he did not try to defend himself. "You'd think I'd be able to leave for a few weeks without Scotland Yard turning it all to shit." He hung up and damn near threw his phone at the wall. He paced back and forth. Think John, _Think! Where would that lanky git to to for info on a new dealer._

\---------

  
  


Five days had passed and Sherlock had been there for each of them. He had ignored calls from Lestrade saying they were getting nowhere. _Of course they weren't. I've done more in a few days than they had in as many weeks. I could have this thing by sundown._ He'd ignored calls and texts from John as well. So what if he was back home again. He didn't particularly want John seeing him in his current pursuit. He'd disapprove. At the current rate, John wouldn't even have to know the path Sherlock had taken to detain this mysterious dealer. He'd have him cuffed and swept under the rug without John so much as suspecting him of using. He tried to convince himself of that at every given sober moment but knew deep down that John always knew. Sherlock was sure he was getting close. During his 'time' here he had heard very interesting conversations between some of the clients he knew shouldn't have been there. Some hadn't been back and he assumed they wound up dead. That's probably why Lestrade was pestering him.

 

He knocked on the door and waited. The wide eyed boy he’d come to know as Billy gave him a nod as he let him through the door. He checked behind Sherlock to make sure no one was following and swiftly closed the door behind him. He led Sherlock up the stairs and returned to his post by the door. The room upstairs was similar to that of downstairs. People of all classes strewn across filthy mattresses and carpeted flooring. Yet in the corner he could see a man. He wasn’t strung out like the rest had been. He was sitting, seemingly unaffected by the surroundings.

 

He was dressed rather nicely. Short, clean cut hair. Pressed clothing. Sherlock carefully moved forwards towards him, narrowly avoiding the stray limbs lying unconscious or intoxicated about the floor. The man caught Sherlock out of the corner of his eye and smiled.   
  
“Welcome brother! I have seen you in my halls of late. Are you searching for something? Do you seek the truth? You have come to the right place, brother! We have more truth here than we can handle!”  
  
Sherlock had not expected this. This sort of fanfare. He spoke with such volume and conviction over, what he proclaimed to be his subjects. “Is that what you call it? In your little plastic bags? Do these people know what they’re getting themselves into? Before you let them poison themselves?” He straightened his back and kept his poise. He knew this was him. Plain enough by his superior god complex. He reached into his phone and blindy texted Lestrade.   
  
_Downtown abandoned warehouses. Third from the right. Come now. Bring an ambulance - SH_

 

“Poison?” He sounded _offended_. “Brother! You have to open your mind! One man's poison is another man's sanctity. Come! Partake of our communion.”  
  
“So they do know? They come to you looking for what, a way out?”  
  
“Some are aware of their burdens. Others need to have their burdens lifted for them. For I am their shepherd through the darkness. Their guide through their last days here on earth. Some of their hardships are too great and they need release! Some indeed ask for it. Others do not have the strength but they are thankful!”

 

“Thankful? That you kill them?”

 

“You would be thankful, brother. For I have seen you in your final days here. I can see your pain. Your heartache. I have seen your curtain drawn back, drawn back by my hand. By my remedies. Do you seek to be enlightened?”

 

Sherlock was no less than a few feet from him now. Dangerously close but enough to see the frenzy in his eyes. He moved carefully not to arouse suspicion “Is that it? You enlighten them?”

 

“I’m afraid the time for words has come and gone brother. You and I will take those last steps together and see what is behind your curtain.”

 

He rose to his feet. Sherlock reached into his coat for his concealed gun but it was too late. He felt the bite of the needle enter at his shoulder and whipped around to defend himself, only too slow. He ripped the syringe out and held it in his hand. He felt the immediate euphoria that came with it and dropped to his knees. Somewhere, his ears picked up the sound of muffled footsteps. Running? Could he run? He felt like he could fly. Fly away from the pain and his misery. He didn’t need them anymore. He slumped gracelessly to the floor in front of him. He vaguely heard Lestrade's voice as he drifted off.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is owned by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and the BBC. We are writing this to fulfil our own perverted desires and earn nothing from this fic other than satisfaction.


	5. Chapter 5

John didn't know where else he could go. He had tried three different hide-outs in the last twenty four hours. He had felt as if he'd tried everything. He stopped by Baker Street and found some map markers and notes Sherlock had kept for a general vicinity scattered in what John could only imagine was _‘organised chaos’_.. Sherlock, unfortunately had always thought too fast. Once something had come to him he'd either run off in a dramatic flourish or sent John if it had been been too dull for him to leave, himself. While all the clues were usually on the board, it took Sherlock’s brain to translate that into the final destination. John had stared uselessly at the clues but was not surprised that it made no sense to him at all and he quickly gave it up. He'd asked a few people he'd recognised from Sherlock's homeless network and went from there, but as soon as he arrived at each location, Sherlock was no where to be seen.

 

John felt as if he'd been going around in circles when his phone finally rang. He breathed a sigh of relief thinking it may finally be Sherlock but when Lestrade's number came up, he could feel his whole body tense. Greg hadn't bothered contacting him since yesterday when John had told him off. If he _had_ found Sherlock.. Why wasn't Sherlock contacting John himself.

 

He answered without pausing to greet him. "Have you found him?"

 

"John, I need you to not worry and just meet us at Barts."

 

"Greg, what's happened"

 

"Just get here. He'll need you"

 

Lestrade clicked the end call button and sighed heavily, looking over at the prone man unconscious in the bed. _Sherlock, what have you done to yourself this time._

 

\-------------------------------------------------------------

 

Sherlock forced his eyes open. The room was bright. Far too bright. He battled, trying to adjust to the clinical white of the hospital room. _Hospital room? That would explain the overwhelming smell of disinfectant._ He struggled to pull himself upright and immediately felt the tubes attached to his hands and in his arms. He assessed that he was plugged into a series of IV, antibiotics and most likely an antidote.

 

_Imbecile medical staff. The dimercaprol he would have been given on site would have been sufficient with follow up D-penicillamine I have no need to be here._

“So you were just going to run off then?”

 

Sherlock felt something in his chest. A curious tightening perhaps and turned to see his blogger in the chair beside his bed.

 

“John? What are -”

 

“Save it, Sherlock. Of course I’m here.” He sounded more concerned than irritated but with John, that typically meant the same thing. “You think I wouldn’t find out you stormed a drug den and got yourself jabbed? Apart from whatever else was in there, you were lucky they couldn't get all of that poison in you.”

 

“Gavin?” Sherlock asked, nonchalantly. John rolled his eyes.

 

“Greg. Yes”

 

Sherlock exhaled his disgust “Meddlesome.”  
  


"You know I've been home for a week, Sherlock." His tone wasn't aggressive, more accusatory. Sherlock could see it in his body language as well as hear it in his voice.

 

_Sat forward in the chair, elbows on his knees, interlocked fingers. Nervous?_

 

"I texted you. Repeatedly actually. Got nothing back so I asked Lestrade. Said you were working some case and he hadn't heard from you either. When he called this morning I was - "

 

"Worried?" Sherlock cut him off. He had averted his gaze and was staring off at the wall in front of him. How could John possibly have time to worry about _him_ when he had his _Mary_ and his new suburban life to tend to.The good doctor would be focused on his impending future offspring, and mortgages and Tuesday night dinners and all that rubbish. No time to be running around half of London trying to solve cases for the incompetent Lestrade together. "I appreciate your concern but I _am_ experienced in taking care of myself"

 

John let out a laugh in disbelief. "Really? When did you last eat anything?"

 

Sherlock fixated his eyes on the waffle pattern of the sheets at his knees. ".. What day is it?"

 

"Not to mention your current position in a _hospital bed_ after being _injected_ with poison and cocaine?" John continued on, barely pausing for an answer.

 

"It was a _case_ , John!" He threw his head back and yelled to the ceiling. "You know Lestrade has a habit of sodding up practically everything he sets to accomplish. I accepted his case and _solved it_ by whatever means necessary. I had the situation under control, as shown by my texting him for an ambulance," he turned to John, "therefore I'd say I'm _quite_ capable of being on my own."

 

John rested back in the hospital chair. He was afraid of this. Afraid that his being with Mary would push Sherlock away. It was just one of his tantrums though. Sherlock had been renowned for them almost as much as his intellect. Associates had been telling John about how his appearance in the Consulting Detective’s life had lessened the severity of the infamous public tantrum. He knew the safest course of action would be to ride it out.

 

After a brief, but pointed silence, John simply stated.

 

"Shall we get you home then? We both know you're only going to piss off the staff and I can see to it that you have your medication for the next two weeks. Let me sign you out and get you unplugged and I'll call us a cab."

 

Sherlock merely nodded his assent and continued his observation of his sheets. He knew that John was merely ‘handling him’, as their associates at the Yard called it when they thought he wasn’t listening. He had to admit to himself, he was somewhat annoyed and simultaneously relieved of John’s interest in his well being. Having only recently returned from his honeymoon _(a ridiculous wedding tradition that he couldn’t fathom had a real purpose)_ Sherlock had assumed that John would be dropping out of his life in favour of pursuing his own married life. He was somewhat surprised, which was a rarity. Instead of letting himself dwell he paused the thoughtstream and stored it in John’s wing of the palace to be analysed later.

 

\------------------------------------

 

Sherlock kept particularly quiet in the cab ride over. John had started droning on about his _sex holiday_ at which point Sherlock had tuned out entirely. He stared out the window of the car when he noticed John go silent, then quietly utter "I miss you. Let's go out to dinner tonight". Sherlock turned only to realise John was on his phone. He could hear Mary on the other side and decided it best to tune out again only he couldn't. He couldn't shut him out. He turned to face out the window again and tried to retreat to his mind palace for the duration but John wouldn't leave. He felt that familiar tensing in his lower abdomen and it felt as if he had swallowed lead.

 

Soon enough the cab had pulled up at 221b and Sherlock hurried out the door, leaving John to pay as always.

 

"Sherlock!" He sighed as he followed the detective out of the car before turning back, "Don't go anywhere, I'll be back in a minute"

 

"Alright. Meters still runnin' though, mate."

 

"Sherlock!" He caught him at the bottom stair. "Sherlock, I mean it now. Just because I'm married and live somewhere else doesn't mean it can't be like it was before. I mean, I maybe can't help _all_ of the cases but that's because I work now too. Will you let me know when you need my help? Nothing's changed, Sherlock." He looked up at Sherlock in such a way that he hadn't seen before. There was something in his face - in his eyes that almost looked like begging. _Dont be absurd. John doesn't need you anymore. He's moved on. The way they all do._

 

"I will contact you in future _if_ I require your assistance." With that he turned on his heel and pushed swiftly but gracefully through the door. Slamming it behind him. Leaving John perplexed on the other side. He ascended the stairs, burst into the apartment and placed his coat on the stand. He started searching furiously through a dirty pile of clothes he had yet to do anything with. _I don't need him here. All he manages to succeed at is complaining and scowling when I try to perform perfectly reasonable experiments to expand well needed knowledge._ He threw one pile to the ground and started frantically searching through another. _If he is out of my way he is one less distraction I have to tend to and will create more space on my hard drive for more important matters._

 

He found it. Hidden deep in the pockets of the jacket he had worn on his first time to the abandoned warehouse, lay a small ziplock bag with a powder inside. He tossed the jacket aside and strode swiftly to the kitchen to prepare it. Swiping his arm across the bench, he knocked a selection of empty jars and beakers to the floor and one mug that had been there for - How long had it been there for?

 

He rummaged through the cupboards above the stovetop and by the sink, knowing he still had his equipment somewhere. _Thats all they ever do. Find some use of me and put me to the side when they’re done. Utilising my talents to suit their needs. John had been cured of his limp and found what danger he had needed as a fix after the war but now he has her he doesn’t need me. He has her._

 

Sherlock could still hear it. All the times John had called him _brilliant. Extraordinary. Amazing._ Each one of the words pained him and he needed to be rid of it. He strode back to his armchair and retrieved the tourniquet he’d pinched from Barts during one of his first visits. He pulled up his sleeve and fastened it around his arm. The words kept repeating. _Fantastic. Really, quite extraordinary._ “Shut up, John” he whispered to himself. He aligned the tip of the needle with his vein and flexed his other hand. As if his body was subconsciously refusing to go ahead. He had no need of it anymore. The case was solved! But when had Sherlock ever given into the needs of his transport? It was his mind that mattered.

  
He plunged the needle through his skin and poured the euphoria into his veins. His mind swam and crashed in waves and he tried to drown John. As he was swept away into the depths of the ocean he whispered “Everythings changed”.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is owned by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and the BBC. We are writing this to fulfil our own perverted desires and earn nothing from this fic other than satisfaction.


	6. Chapter 6

“Mary? Where are my bloody keys?!”

 

John bellowed up the stairs as he whirled around the lounge upturning cushions.

 

“Same place as always dear.” Came the sing song reply from their bedroom, “on the coffee table.”  

 

John scooped up the offending metal ring and gave it a vigorous shake before checking his watch again.

“I’ve got to go Mary, I’ll be late again.” The new Mrs. Watson trotted down the stairs and pulled the doctor into a kiss.

 

“Have a nice day sweetheart.” She smiled at him and he gave one in return, pocketing the kiss she blew at him as he flew out the door and down the road.

 

_Have a nice day. Indeed._

 

Another day of crying children, sniffles and less than scrupulous employees looking for a long weekend doctor’s certificate. Mind numbingly boring work where John felt his brain drifting back through the exciting adventures he had experienced as the Blogger.

 

The wind whipping at his clothing, gun gripped in his hand as he clambered over the rooftops of London hot on the heels of a detective sociopath and their latest suspect. The flushed cheeks and exhilarated face of Sherlock panting and looking up at him as he pinned the suspect to the tiles waiting for John to catch up.

 

John shook himself from the memory and shrugged his satchel on his shoulder. That was a past life, he was happily married to a beautiful, normal woman who adored him. He had a nice house, with nice furnishings and a nice stable job and a baby on the way. _Nice._

 

This is what John the retired army doctor always wanted, wasn’t it? A nice, quiet, normal life with an attractive lady. He sighed, watching his exhaled breath steam in the cold British morning and continued on to the clinic.

 

\-----------------------------------

 

Sherlock sat in his armchair, fingers steepled beneath his chin and stared at the empty chair in front of him. It had been a month and a half since he had delivered his best man speech at John’s wedding. While John had been his blogger and lived with him he had a buffer, an intermediary between himself and the idiots that lay outside his front door. Sherlock had begun to find accepting clients insufferable and usually not even a four.

 

My husband has become distant and private. _Mistress, invest in a good lawyer. Next._

I think I was adopted. _Yes, as a baby from an impoverished, drug addled household. Next._

 

Even the cases that Lestrade was “consulting” him for were barely a six and the detective does not wear clothes for less than a seven. His mind flicked back to when he sent John armed with a laptop and a webcam to a case that he solved without even getting out of bed.

 

And then there was the chair. That empty chair, the chair that should hold his blogger sipping fresh tea and tapping away at his laptop. Except it wasn’t. He went and got himself married, quite selfish really. How was Sherlock supposed to interact with the general public without his blogger? And besides, nobody could make tea like the doctor.

 

He tapped his fingertips together and frowned at the chair as if it somehow offended him with its existence. Suddenly Sherlock got to his feet and grabbed the disagreeable piece of furniture. Pulling it by the arm he dragged it to the room that had formerly been his own and looked around.

 

The room smelt musty with disuse, the small single bed made with military precision still sat in the corner where he had removed it from the room above. Sherlock hadn’t set foot in this room since John had informed him that he was leaving. The detective had simply moved all of John’s belongings down into this room and replaced them with his own. His brain involuntarily cast a projection of John yelling at Sherlock after the latter had burst in with an epiphany concerning a case while John held a pillow over his modesty. A projection of another time when a pillow flew at him after Sherlock had burst in while John had a girl in his bed who was cringing beneath the sheets in sheer mortification. Honestly, he didn’t know what John’s obsession with privacy was but it was very cumbersome at times.

 

Pushing John out of his head momentarily he pulled at the chair again, dragging it over the threshold and into the John Room where all the other John things lived. After John left it had been too hard to have these ‘John’ items laying around the house and so Sherlock had collected them as he stumbled across them and deposited it into this room.

 

The book he never finished (some trivial armchair detective novel), the cup he always drank his morning tea out of (unless Sherlock interrupted by dragging him to a case), a jumper that Sherlock had actually folded and placed on the bed.

 

 _Just in case…_.. No. No, ‘in case’ he comes back. He has a wife, he’s gone and he’s happy.

 

They all leave in the end.

 

He slumped into the armchair now safely in the John Room and dangled his legs from one arm. He reached out and grabbed the soft jumper, pulling it to his chest he rubbed the material between finger and thumb, retreating to his mind palace to relive when John had worn it. But it wasn’t enough, being here with John’s belongings and his jumper. It had ceased to smell like John anymore but just the sight of it brought memories of cases and sitting in dual armchairs discussing case details. Sherlock sighed and stared out the door to the coffee table where a syringe lay and closed his eyes.

 

Just one? To help him remember with more clarity? If he can’t have John here, couldn’t he at least have those memories relived? Really, it was the only course of action left for him to take. His stubbornness didn’t allow him to text John and invite him over for usual social gatherings. It had always been on someone else’s terms. Others would contact him to request his time, not the other way around. Showed weakness. Sherlock hadn’t even realised he had actually walked to the table and picked up what he would need until he looked down and saw them in his hands.

 

When had that happened?

 

This had been the last of it. If he used this, he would need to leave the flat to acquire more. That would mean going through the general public and Sherlock found an entirely new annoyance at his missing doctor for making him go out on his own. Granted if he was here, he wouldn’t be in this bothersome predicament in the first place.

 

He returned to John’s armchair and slipped down into it. At least here, surrounded by John’s abandoned things he felt cocooned and safe.

 

Sherlock placed the syringe on one side of the armchair. He slowly inched his long fingers back down to his cuff and undid the button. This should have felt wrong but it didn't. Nestled in the safety of John’s chair, there had really been no better place for it. The substance had soothed him briefly elsewhere but now that he was here, surrounded by all things ‘John’, he knew his mind would absorb it all and make for a truly better high. Maybe it may even make the hurt go away. For a time.

 

Sherlock looked in front of him and stared at the single bed, imagining the man who should be beneath its covers with numbed, glossy eyes. With more force than he was intending, he neatly rolled up the shirt sleeve up past his forearm. Sherlock heedlessly wrapped the tourniquet around his arm and tightened. Perhaps a little more than necessary. The vein rose quickly and powerfully, as if agreeing with him. They hadn’t ever agreed on much, but they agreed on John. They needed him.

 

_No you don't. He’s not coming back. You need this._

He slid the needle deep through his skin, only a fraction too slow and a drop of blood seeped from the open wound. Disregarding it, he plunged the remedy he so sorely needed into his bloodstream. Sherlock exhaled softly as he felt it rush under his skin, into every corner of his being. He dropped the tourniquet and pulled the needle out letting it dangle from his slack hand. He could almost feel the cells trying to restitch after such an invasion.

 

Bringing his eyes away from their locked position, he forced himself to look at the blood. He moved to brush it away but hesitated. It was fascinating. The colour. The bouquet. The form. John would have seen so much in his time at war. He wondered if It still affected him. He decided to let it clot in the crease of his forearm and left it hanging off the side of the armchair. With his other hand, he grabbed John's oatmeal jumper and bundled it to his nose and inhaled deeply.

 

_I need a doctor. Bring me my doctor._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is owned by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and the BBC. We are writing this to fulfil our own perverted desires and earn nothing from this fic other than satisfaction.


	7. Chapter 7

This would be it. The last time he would be here. Granted he had said the same thing each of the last three visits that he made but this time was different. After this he would have no need of his drug. Granted it wasn't his drug of choice. His preferred narcotic was busy being happy somewhere _not_ with him. It would all be fine though. One more purchase and he could put the whole set of events with the doctor behind him and he could return to what he did best. _Being alone._

 

Billy Wiggins had surprised him though. After the incident with Vandal and his ‘boss’, Wiggins had returned and set up his clientele in the same location once the police had swept the area and completed their usual poking about. He figured if the cops had already cleared the area there’d be no reason to return to it. Surprisingly clever for someone in this habitat.

 

Sherlock knocked on the familiar door, was met with a nod and allowed through without much preamble.  He moved quickly and silently through to his regular mattress. Up the stairs and all the way at the back. This space was chosen to be as out of sight as possible in case the worst was to occur. Not a likely probability but one must factor in all the possibilities. His preferred position was blanketed in a shroud of darkness due to the lack of windows or any direct lighting. Just as it should be.

 

Sherlock placed a handful of notes at the end of his mattress and waited. Wiggins made his usual slither past him, exchanging the cash for a small bag and left as quickly as he came.

 

Sherlock hesitantly reached out and wrapped his long fingers delicately around the bagged powder and brought it back to his lap. As he held it in front of him, his constant reminder, the voice of his doctor pounded in his head.   
  
_“When will it stop Sherlock?”_

 

Sherlock closed his eyes. John’s silly little face had such a sad expression. Similar to the one he had pulled when he had first found out about his past when they first met. He knew deep down if John were to find out now there would be more than those desperate eyes, silently begging for it to not be true. But Sherlock was lacking at predicting human emotions so the only thing he would return to were those eyes.

 

_“I trusted you”_

 

Sherlock inhaled deeply and opened his eyes. _You don’t belong here John._ He started to prepare the only way he knew to silence John when another voice creeped inside his head. One that shouldn’t be there. He looked up in confusion and heard it again.

 

_That came from downstairs._

 

He thrust the bag into his pocket and moved silently and swiftly towards the top of the stairs. Peering through the gap between the railings, he made out an all too familiar woman. With a furrowed brow, Sherlock desperately inched closer. As close as possible without being noticed.

 

“Is it ready? You said it’d be ready to pick up.“

 

Sherlock almost couldn’t believe it. If it had been a few moments later he would have sworn it was the narcotics but he was more sober than he cared to be. It was as if she wasn’t even trying to be subtle. No overcoat. No disguise. No attempt to camouflage herself at all. Mrs Watson in a drug den. There was no way this was anyone else. Sherlock had stood at their wedding. Watched as they took their vows and played them through their first dance. He would know that voice anywhere. Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth.

 

“Yeah, it’s all ‘ere”  
  
Wiggins pulled out a bag and held it out for her. Sherlock stared in utter disbelief. There must have been a hundred grams in there easily. Why on earth would anyone require such a vast amount at any one time? That would have been priced far above what a freshly married Watson couple could afford. Five thousand? Six?

 

“Thank you. There’s an extra thousand in there. I was never here. You understand?”

 

“A’right, neva seen ya. Sure”

 

Mary turned and hastily exited the den without another word. Sherlock moved back away from the stairs and leant against the wall behind him. How could he not have seen this? He could identify a software designer by his tie and an airline pilot by his left thumb, but he couldn’t pull ‘addict’ from John’s _wife_.  She had been almost everywhere John had been and he’s seen her more than he cared to over the last six months. More than ample time and opportunity to deduce _something_ from this woman. How had she come up blank?

 

Sherlock pulled away from the wall, pulled his scarf from his coat and hung it around his neck. He head down the stairs and waited an appropriate amount of time before exiting to be sure Mary wouldn’t catch him. He wouldn’t need the drug in his pocket. Not for now. He had a case. He had to find out what his blogger had gotten himself into. And with whom.

 

The game was on.

 

\----------------------------------------------------

 

Sherlock fumbled through the scattered papers on the floor and tried to establish the appalling from the truly horrendous. He had been at this for hours. It had been sunset when Sherlock left the den. He’d worked through the dark of night with the glare from the screen of the laptop burning into his eyes till the sun rose. Between his time sifting through government websites, tracking reports and various confidential witness accounts he had a reasonable idea but it wasn’t until he was allowed the access that Mycroft had granted for him that he had found out who she really was.

 

Maneuvering around the scattered documents, he gathered the ones he had deemed the most insightful and added it to the others tacked to the chocolate fleur de lys pattern on the wall. Sherlock took a step back and stared at the organised chaos plastered in front of him with reproach.  How had he not seen this earlier?

 

When he had first met her she was.. nice. Charming. He had picked up on a number of things but they were all pedestrian. _Nurse, bakes her own bread, short sighted, cat lover_. Nothing that would even remotely suggest an ulterior motive.  Though that had been the plan hadn’t it? Given her obvious skill set she'd clearly learned how to manipulate herself to fly under the radar. She had expertly hidden any physical characteristics;

_She'd hidden markers on her hands that would be the result of years using a firearm._

_Posture doesn’t suggest any history of physical exertion relative to that of a gymnast._

_Build wasn't suggestive to any previous years of hard labour._

She certainly hid herself well to those around her;

_Name taken approximately five years ago from the grave of a stillborn child._

_Claims to be an orphan to disencourage any further prodding into her family._

_Established a career well below her intelligence. A receptionist at a surgery. How quaint._

_Accent is English to 'blend in' but given her history she could be from anywhere._

 

He traced the last few years of her life tangibly in front of him. Sighing inwardly he brought his hands to a picture of her. Quietly, he asked her "Who are you?" He dropped his hands back to his sides and scanned the photographs and documents another time, as if they would reveal themselves after several hundred attempts.

 

"Why did you want John? He can't be a target. He's too stupid to have upset of anyone worth mentioning. Though, yes, he can be particularly stupid at inappropriate times -" Sherlock smiled, remembering several times John had almost gotten himself killed from that mouth. That smartarse mouth of his. He returned his focus to the board "- He hasn't had the company that would warrant a hit so why _him_."

 

Sherlock had all the information in front of him but it seemed to raise more questions than he already had. Some had been answered. Answered in a way that he had almost regretted asking but at least he knew now what she was and what she was capable of. He would have to meet with her. He needed to know what she had planned for John, preferably without the doctor present. This wouldn't be a conversation he would take too well, Sherlock imagined.

 

He pulled back his sleeve at the wrist. 9:30. John will have just arrived at work and it was Wednesday. One of two days when John works while Mary stays at home. _Does she though?_ Their flat wasn't too far. Sherlock could easily head over and simply ask her. Though if he revealed that he is aware of her indiscretions, would she not simply take him out too? _No she clearly has some emotional attachment to John and she is perfectly aware of what my last death did to him, if she does care she would not repeat the situation._

Though that too, may all be a lie.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is owned by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and the BBC. We are writing this to fulfil our own perverted desires and earn nothing from this fic other than satisfaction.


	8. Chapter 8

Sherlock peered out the window as the cabbie drove up to the Watson residence. This was the life John had created for himself. A simple townhouse flat seemingly tucked away from the noise and mayhem than was central London. Away from Sherlock.

 

He thrust a stack of banknotes at the driver, probably too much though it wasn't important, and hastily exited the car towards the front door. He paused for a moment before knocking and took a breath. _Time to be Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective._

 

The door swung open and there she stood. She wore the same glittering smile she always had. The one when she had covered embarrassingly after he had interrupted them in the restaurant upon his return, during their playful banter while organising her wedding or while begging him to take John out on a case because he was driving her insane. How much of that had been true and to what extent had it been lies Sherlock was yet to uncover.

 

"Sherlock! This is a surprise, I would've thought you’d died again, I haven't seen you since the wedding! Oh, do come in!" She playfully pulled Sherlock through the door and closed it behind them. Mary guided him through the hall decorated with trinkets and photos from their wedding day. _Was she trying to convince herself as well as John?_

 

She brought him into the living room, pushed him back into the lounge and insisted on tea before hurrying off to boil the kettle.

"No tea, thank you Mary," He sighed, averting his gaze. "I'm afraid this isn't going to be a pleasant visit." Her face fell, instantly.

 

"Oh god, is it John? What's happened? Is he ok?" T _hat seemed real enough. The tone of her voice denoted compassion and a genuine interest to his wellbeing. Perhaps she didn't mean to fall for the doctor. She hadn't anticipated how deep her feelings for him would develop. But then, neither did Sherlock._

"John's fine. He's the reason I'm here actually. Mary, I want to keep John safe. He's been through so much already, mostly by my hand, I _am_ aware, but I won't be making that mistake again. I'd like to stop another incident before it occurs." He had to be delicate. This situation was far too sensitive.

 

Mary furrowed her brow and took a step back.

"What are you talking about?" Her eyes widened,  "Are you in danger again? You're not going to leave him _again_ are you because you know you can't, it'll _kill_ him!"

 

"I'm not going to leave, Mary." His eyes darted across across the room. _The happy couple posed in a number of frames. Dishes in the sink. Days marked off on a calendar littered with appointments and schedules. A list on the fridge organising dinners for each night this week. If she's a sociopath too, she's very good at playing 'ordinary'_. He looked back to her. "You are."

 

Mary laughed in disbelief.

"Excuse me?" Sherlock stood and adjusted his coat, desperate for his fingers to remain occupied. He was sure she would see them start to shake and, given her hidden intellect and history in the medical field, could probably deduce what anyone could given Sherlock's history. He had no doubt that John would have confided in her which pained him more than he thought it could. "What makes you think I'd leave John? Even if we _did_ have problems - " She suddenly turned very serious "- which we don't, I wouldn't take his child away from him."

 

"Ah. Yes. Of course. The _baby_." Sherlocks eyes moved to her belly. "How many weeks should you be now? Nine weeks? Of course you would have some time before you would start to show, time enough to organise some tragic accident. Too late I'm afraid to conceive _now_ there's too big a window from the intended date of conception. If you became pregnant _now_ there's no explanation for the nine weeks that you weren't pregnant. You could _claim_ a hysterical pregnancy but that would cause John to look into the doctor's appointments you haven't been to"

 

Mary stared at Sherlock in a way he wouldn't have expected. He expected denial, blind rage, anything but what her current expression held for him which seemed to burn down to _'clever boy'_. She allowed him to continue.

 

"The paperwork is fairly convincing though. Doctor Murphy is a _lovely_ obstetrician only it would be fairly difficult to diagnose you officially given that his medical licence was revoked some years ago. It was fairly suspicious and the case is ongoing so it never made the papers. Was barely a five, drug and weapon trafficking through pregnant woman. So painfully obvious even _Lestrade_ worked it out. Though I have heard for the right price he'll forge any document that doesn't require a script, so long as you don't need to fool anyone still practising. Makes him utterly useless for me but I can see how he was perfect for you. Not only a _doctor_ but an obstetrician giving out fake reports to anyone with a need!"

 

Sherlock tried to contain the excitement in his voice but once he was on a roll with a case, it sort of just came out. It was one of the things John considered brilliant.

 

"My only question is John. How did you keep it from him? You knew the signs well enough to attract my attention on your wedding day but that was it. _One day_. You've lived with the doctor as your husband for weeks. He would be checking on you in your _sleep_ , Mary. How did you convince him?"

 

Mary rolled her head as if relaxing into her true self instead of the good wife mask she wore and looked up at Sherlock. She looked at him as a mother would to to her teen if he finally brought an ‘A’ grade home from school after several failed attempts. Proud. And after so long.

 

She folded her arms.

"I didn't need to." Her tone deepened and changed dramatically. Her voice matched the woman he had seen in the den yesterday. And the terrible deeds in the paperwork. "If the _great consulting detective_ says it's true, why would John even bat an eyelid? He follows your every word as gospel. Granted you did let it spill earlier than I'd have hoped. I thought even _you_ would have _some_ tact and not bring it up to him at his wedding! I mean come on, Sherlock. That was a bit not good."

 

Sherlock bristled at her nonchalant use of their inside joke for herself but took his turn to listen. She had done him the courtesy of letting him lay out all he had deduced on the topic, it was only fair to let her explain.

 

"I put out the 'sign of three', as you so delicately named it, in case something arose during the name changing process and John found out that my name is not _my_ name." Her tone lightened, "I assume you've caught on to that as well?" Sherlock nodded, and in turn Mary nodded, gathering how much Sherlock had learnt about her. "They were subtle enough that _you'd_ pick them up but not John. It was a last minute decision, I shouldn't have bothered. You were right. The miscarriage _will_ hurt him. But it'll open his eyes to how much he wants kids! You and I both know he'll try again and then I can give him the family he wants! Don’t you see this is what's best for him!"

 

Sherlock walked around the coffee table slowly, never taking his eyes off Mary. She simply stood there, clearly quite confident in her relationship with John that nothing seemed wrong with this.

"And what about the rest? The assassinations for the CIA? How many people have you killed?  What happened that made you leave and become rogue? Was it the money? You clearly still have some of it stashed away if you can afford -" _No, she'll know I was there_ "- such a nice place in London?"

 

Mary smiled innocently. That same smile that had fooled Sherlock. Fooled John for months. "You mean how can I afford the drugs I bought yesterday at the den?" Sherlock tensed for a fraction of a second but she read him like an open book. "I know you were there Sherlock. I can see it in your hands and in your eyes. You're using again aren't you?" Sherlock stopped in his path, though didn't even try to deny it. Of course she knew. "It's ok, detective. Addictions are hard, aren't they?" She could have passed for sympathetic, had Sherlock not known better. "I wouldn't know. I've never tried it. The stuff I bought was for a friend who desperately needs it. Is it good Sherlock? Does it make everything easier? Does the world just fall away and quiet that busy mind of yours?"

 

She unfolded her arms as she closed the gap between them. Delicately she raised her hands and placed them on Sherlock's cheeks. "I know you haven't seen John in a while but he's _happy_ here. He's happy and safe not following you into danger like a loyal puppy. He's happy with _me_." She gently kissed him on the cheek before removing her hands and stepping back.

"I'm not leaving him Sherlock. He needs me and I love him. I love that man more than I ever thought I could." S _he's telling the truth._ "If you breathe a word of this to John -", she returned to that woman that was so alien to him, "- He'll know all about your little addiction."

 

"Mary, please. If you love him _. Really_ love him.." _Please.._ "- Don't do this to him."

 

"And what are _you_ doing to him? Not returning his texts for weeks? Shooting up in some warehouse. You're inflicting more damage on him than I would. I _love_ him. Can you say the same?"

 

_Yes._

 

They stood there in silence. Nothing Sherlock could ever say would convince her to leave. This was proving to be a fruitless waste of his time.

 

"Thank you for your time, Mary. I think it best if I let myself out"

 

Mary's smile burned into him for one last time as she threw her arms around him. He couldn't even react before she said, as a sister would say to a brother, "Don't be a stranger, Sherlock! You come around any time! We could do dinner!" As she pulled away, Sherlock could see it in the back of her eyes. She was in control. She knew what move to make before the time even presented itself.

 

"Goodbye Mary." He forced a smile and left the way he came, closing the big wooden door behind him and searched for a cab as he entered the street. He fastened his scarf around his neck, pausing briefly to observe the shake of his hands. He needed to get home. He needed to calm his mind and his transport, both. He needed to tell John. No, not tell him. _Show him._ He would never believe Sherlock, not unless he heard it by her own admission. It would not be easy to orchestrate, but if anyone could do it, it was Sherlock Holmes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is owned by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and the BBC. We are writing this to fulfil our own perverted desires and earn nothing from this fic other than satisfaction.


	9. Chapter 9

_Meet me at Baker St when convenient - SH_

 

Sherlock hadn't spoken to John in a near a fortnight. He had been too preoccupied by his own selfish desire to try and shut John out the way John had shut him out. In truth he hadn't realised it had been so long. Yes, it had felt like an eternity without his doctor but he had felt like that for the month that followed the wedding. After John had tried to reconcile with the detective in his hospital bed, only to make plans with Mary before Sherlock had even left the cab on the way home, it had all proved too much. The influence of his narcotic had warped his sense of time, and clearly, his perception.

 

No reply. Sherlock lay across the lounge, legs propped up by the arm rest on the far end and his head resting on the other. He can't still be asleep. John was such a light sleeper, any movement on his phone would have woken him. Waiting till late was the only way to ensure there would be no communication between him and Mary. He could read John even from the other side of London. When he would come over, and he _would_ come over, he wouldn't dare wake his _pregnant_ wife from her slumber. The thought of John in that house with that woman sent chills up his spine. Perhaps if he attempted their casual banter..

 

_If inconvenient, come anyway - SH_

He stared at the screen, near begging for a reply. He closed his eyes attempting to will a response from the phone before it vibrated in his hand and lit up. He shot his eyes open to read.

 

_Sherlock, it's late. Whatever it is, it can wait till morning- JW_

 

He needed to get to John before she did.

 

_I've been injured. I've cut my fingers off and they need to be restitched by a doctor, not the amateurs at Emergency - SH_

 

_'Course you have, Sherlock. You do know it's the middle of the night? Us idiots like to sleep at this hour.  - JW_

_Good thing you're awake then. - SH_

 

Why was he even arguing with Sherlock? John knew he would just give in eventually. Too big of a bloody soft spot for that man, regardless of how he had ignored John for almost two months. He had just started typing a reply when another message crossed his screen.

 

_Please - SH_

John stared quizzically at his phone. Something must be serious for Sherlock to use the dreaded 'P' word.

 

_Be there in 10 - JW_

 

He looked over his shoulder to find Mary still sleeping peacefully, facing the other wall. He smiled as she snored gently away before kissing her on the shoulder and making a quiet escape. If Sherlock in fact _was_ injured, John would most likely have him repaired and back to pestering people before sun up. No need to worry Mary. If she did wake to find him missing, she'd probably think nothing of it. She always was so clever.

 

Sherlock smiled as he read his doctor’s reply. John was coming _here_. However his smile quickly vanished when he thought to why he had needed him at the flat in the first place. John was sure to be disappointed by the events of the coming hours. Mary’s past, the pregnancy... And him. Sherlock knew Mary would follow through in her threat to tell John about his addiction but that didn’t matter. All that mattered was that John be safe and away from this woman. She was dangerous and a liar. John deserved better.

 

Sitting up he brought his feet to the floor and shot through another text. This needed to be timed perfectly.

 

_The long sobbing of the violins of Autumn - SH_

 

An instant reply.

 

_Wounds my heart with a monotonous languor - BW_

 

Wiggins had turned out to be a somewhat faithful recruit. After the whole ordeal with 'the dealer', he had learned who Sherlock really was and requested that he be of assistance to him. Billy was actually rather clever. And he knew how to recognise World War II code phrases as well as John could. He had made observations about the fellow 'junkies' in the den to an extent that he doubted even John would have picked up on. He can understand why he was made the doorman. He could pick out an undercover policeman in a heartbeat simply from their haircut. He was also rather quick on his feet and stronger than he looked. Though now those skills were at Sherlock’s disposal.

 

\-------------------------------------------------

 

John exited the cab and fumbled through his keys trying to find the right one. He hadn't used it in a while and seemed to have lost its place among the others. _There you are_. He plucked the key out and allowed the others to slide down the keyring around it before quietly inserting it into its place and letting himself in. Stepping quietly up the stairs he remembered every creak and where to step to avoid them. Jonn couldn't wake Mrs Hudson at this hour. He'd never hear the end of it.

 

He knocked lightly on Sherlocks door as a courtesy before letting himself in. Half expecting to see Sherlock in a pool of his own blood, he was almost relieved to find him upright and pacing around the living room, dressed rather well actually, for this hour. He sighed. The room seemed different, off balance somehow. Looking around he squinted, trying to remember where everything went until he realised just what was missing.

 

"Where's my chair gone?" John's voice shook Sherlock from his mind palace that had been playing out the possibilities of outcomes from tonight’s proceedings to come. Sherlock stopped immediately in his path and turned to face him, completely ignorant of whatever comment John had just made. _Oh John. Please dont hate me for this._

 

Sherlock had suddenly lost all of his words. He had planned this down to every detail since he had seen Mary this morning but seeing John in his doorway just brought everything crashing down around him. Focus. She'll be here soon.

 

He closed the space between him and his doctor and brought his hands to John's shoulders, mentally noting the soft cotton from his jumper. He looked deep into the eyes of his doctor to ensure he had all his attention. His tone was soft but direct.

 

"John. This is very important, I need you to do exactly as I say. Do you understand?"

 

"What's this about, Sherlock? It's the middle of the bloody night. You better be bleeding internally or something."

 

"John, _please_." John's face turned serious. There was that word again, twice in one night no less. "There isn't a lot of time. I have a client coming over who is potentially very dangerous and very skittish around other people. I need you to lock yourself in your -" _Not anymore_ , "my bedroom, down the hall." Sherlocks eyes widened. _Oh no_. He had forgotten the John room. _Focus_! He could deal with that later. "John listen to me. This is important. Listen. Don't come out for anything. No matter what you hear. No matter what is said. I need you to stay out of sight."

 

John watched Sherlock intently as he lay out his instructions. First he ignores him for weeks then he has the nerve to lock John in a room while he probably gets himself killed. Sherlock would be the death of him, he just knew it.

 

"Sherlock, what's going on, what client?" John was still protesting, didn’t he realise how close to the deadline we are? Sherlock shot a concerned look at his watch while trying to usher John away.

 

The doorbell rang.

 

"Have you locked Mrs Hudson downstairs? She'll rip your teeth out if that doorbell wakes her up in the middle of the night."

 

"She's at her sisters." Sherlock grabbed the doctor’s shoulders firmly and directed him down the hall. "John, I am sorry for this but it's imperative that you _stay here_." Sherlock reached past John and pushed the door open in front of him. "Keep the light off. Don't make a sound."

 

What could John do but obey? It was clearly too late with his client already here. That bloody man was walking on very thin ice. He would be having a word with him after this whole stupid ordeal, but for now, he did as the man had asked. He took a step into the room before Sherlock hastily shut it behind him.

 

"Lock it from the inside, John." Sherlock called out as he turned away from the door and went down the hall.

 

The whole room was black. John couldn't see a thing but turned and fumbled at the door until he heard the latch click. Who could Sherlock be seeing so late at night that required him to lock himself into a dark room? Furthermore, who could be so dangerous that Sherlock needed him there at all? He widened his eyes, trying to allow his pupils to adjust to the abyss that was Sherlock’s bedroom. From memory, his bed should only a few steps directly opposite the door. He turned again to face into the darkness and reached out in front of him. He took slow, careful steps into the darkness, not entirely lifting his feet from the floor and, sooner than he thought, he bumped into something. He stared uselessly in front of him as his hands traced out the shape of the object at his feet. Furniture. But not a bed. It ... felt... almost like..

 

John turned once again to face the door and trusted himself to sit back, bringing his arms up to rest by his sides. His chair. It was his chair. Why had Sherlock dragged it all the way from the living room to his bedroom? It had been unceremoniously dumped in the middle of the floor. Surely this must be in the way of his bed. Of everything?

 

That didn't matter now. It could be one more thing that he bring up to Sherlock later. For now he had been instructed to listen. He sat comfortably in his chair and stared at the thin sliver of light trying to push its way under the door, listening for Sherlock's client.

 

Sherlock barely had time to return to his armchair before he heard her downstairs. He leant back into the chair facing the door and pressed his fingers together, then to his lips. No aspect of what was about to happen was going to be pleasant. He had hoped to be a little more delicate with John but he wouldn’t believe him otherwise. Not after Sherlock being purposefully distant for so long.

 

He heard the bang of the wooden door as it slammed closed, then the hurried sound of footsteps ascending the stairs.

 

_Here we go_

 

“What the hell is this, Sherlock?” Mary barged through the door, immediately focused on Sherlock with a burning fury behind her eyes. “It’s not enough you come to my house this morning, now you drag me here in the middle of the night? We’ve discussed this. There’s nothing more to say!”  
  
John’s ears perked. He silently mouthed “Mary?”  
  
“I just want to understand.” Sherlock pulled out a binder filled with his personal ‘favourite’ details that he had found the previous night and dropped it on the table in front of him. He gestured to the wooden chair on the other side, where John’s chair had been before he dragged it from the room in an angry, lonely high. He invited her to sit. “If I understand your case, perhaps I may be willing to come to terms with what you’ve done and allow you to continue.”

 

John furrowed his brow and leant forward in his chair. What the hell was going on? Why had Sherlock dragged him over here, hidden him in his room and now seemed to be interrogating his wife?

 

Sherlock watched as Mary sighed, gave a slight nod and proceeded to sit in the seat opposite the detective. She reached for the file in front of them and started to flick through the pages, as Sherlock read them aloud for the benefit of her hidden husband.

“Mary Elizabeth Morstan was stillborn in October 1972. Her gravestone is in Chiswick Cemetery where five years ago you acquired her name and date of birth and thereafter her identity. That’s why you don't have _friends_ from before that date. Making it rather difficult to fill your half of the church at your wedding”. Mary brought her eyes up from the file briefly, just to acknowledge that Sherlock was correct, then returned to the papers. “It’s an old enough technique, known to the kinds of people who can recognise a skip-code on sight and have extraordinary retentive memories.”

Mary  smiled and threw the file back to the table.

 

“You were very slow.”

 

Sherlock leant forward and with genuine curiosity and asked, “How good of a shot are you?”

 

“How badly do you want to find out?” She quickly pulled a Sig Sauer p288 complete with silencer, cocked it and aimed it directly between Sherlock’s eyes. He smiled. Interesting.   
  


John leapt from his chair at the painfully familiar sound and stopped inches from the closed door in front of him. Surely, she wouldn’t shoot Sherlock? The light poured over the tips of his shoes as he struggled to remain silent and still. He closed his eyes as if the room wasn’t shrouded in enough darkness. This can’t be. _What the bloody hell is this?_

  
“My meddlesome brother has had so many video cameras installed in here, its a wonder I’m not the star of a tedious reality television show. Various angled shots of you shooting me? Even Scotland Yard could get _somewhere_ with that. I want to know how good you are. _Go on._ Show me. The doctor’s wife must be a little bit _bored_ by now.” Sherlock goaded her, stroking her ego until she gave in.

 

Mary paused, considering the proposition. She gave a half-shrug, turned the gun to the wall and fired, never breaking her eye contact with Sherlock. Lowering the gun, she raised an eyebrow as if to say “Well?”. Sherlock carefully turned his head towards the wall, only turning his eyes from her at the last moment to observe the shot she had made. It had entered the wall directly inside one of the eyes spraypainted in yellow. Sherlock raised his eyebrows and turned back to her. She slid her sidearm back into her cloak.

“May I?” Mary nodded in agreement.

 

Sherlock rose to his feet and approached the wall that had only hours earlier been plastered with photos and documents on Mrs Watson. He reached his hand out and with the tip of his finger, traced the hole made by the bullet. It was perfectly in the centre of the yellow circle. He turned back to Mary to see a look of self satisfaction comfortably rested across her features. Sherlock made a subtle, passing glance on his way back to the centre of the room towards the John Room, which had earned a whole new meaning to its name. He could make out the shoes closely standing at the back of the door. John was hanging on every word, even the ones unspoken. _I’m sorry John._

 

“Why the pregnancy?” Sherlock enquired. John needed to know, needed to hear it in her voice. How else could he be expected to understand the extent of her betrayal?

 

John was certain they would hear him. His heart pounding in his chest. His shaking breath.

 

“I told you. That was insurance in case John had any reason to leave”

 

No. John brought his hand up to the door and rested it on the cold wood in front of him. As the lies kept streaming from his _Wife’s_ mouth. He leant his head forward, pressing so hard into the door, he was sure it would swing open. John desperately clung onto every word trying to absorb what was being said. _She lied. Everything._ That was enough. He’d sat idly by for long enough. He brought his other hand up and rested it on the doorknob. He needed to face her.

 

Sherlock stood behind his armchair and leant forward, commanding Mary’s attention.

“Why won’t you tell him? You can’t keep this up. He’s going to figure it out. He may not have our level of intelligence, but he is not stupid. Eventually, he will find out, wouldn’t that be worse?”

 

“Because John can't ever know that I lied to him. It would break him and I would lose him forever – and, Sherlock, I will _never_ let that happen.” Sherlock looked past Mary and saw John emerge around the corner. He stood there in the hallway, shoulders back, arms down his sides and his left hand flexing subconsciously against his hip. Their eyes met and Sherlock had never seen John so heartbroken. “ _Please_ .. ... understand. There is nothing in this world that I would not do to stop that happening.” Sherlock looked back down to Mary and could feel her desperation. He almost felt sorry for her. Almost. 

He simply uttered, “Sorry.”

 

Mary looked at Sherlock quizzically before following his line of sight over her shoulder and the realisation hit her. She turned slowly, dreading the moment when their eyes would meet and was met by John’s barely comprehending face. Sherlock could feel what he was feeling. He had a deleted memory somewhere labelled ‘betrayal’ and seemed to recall it felt similar to how John looked.

 

John paced back and forth in front of the sofa, continually nodding his head as he attempted to absorb the information. Sherlock’s concerned gaze followed him while Mary studiously avoided looking anywhere but her feet. The lies. The lies that stretched back as far as he had known her. She had been _perfect. So_ perfect. _Too_ perfect. Of course she was. She _made_ herself perfect to fit into John’s life. Right when he was the most vulnerable. Right when he had needed someone the most. _How could she?_

 

John’s internal monologue was tangible between Sherlock and Mary. Mary looked at Sherlock with such hate and he knew that she was going to reveal his secret. He didn’t care anymore. At least John knew who she was, what she was. He could be rid of them both and finally be happy.

 

John stopped. He turned straight to Mary and looked her dead in the eyes.

“Is everyone I have _ever_ met a psychopath?” Sherlock deserved that. He knew he shouldn’t speak given the current events taking place in his living room. Every word, every syllable uttered must be measured with incredible delicacy. So naturally he replied bluntly

“Yes.” Mary gave a tiny nod of agreement, pursing her lips.

“Good now that we’ve settled that. John I -”

John cut him off furiously and snapped to face him _“SHUT UP!”_

 

Sherlock flinched at the sheer volume and brought his hands together in front of him. He had never seen John so volatile, despite Sherlock’s many misdeeds John had never yelled at him, not like that.

 

“And _stay_ shut up, because this is _not_ funny.” He gave Sherlock an angry humourless smile that Sherlock could feel cutting through him to the bone. “Not this time.”

 

“I didn’t say it was funny.” Sherlock replied, almost as an after thought but he was no longer the focus of John’s attention.

 

“You.”  John forcefully turned to look at Mary. His voice and his face full of barely-controlled anger and his frequent breaths heavy throughout his next words. “What have I ever done ... hmm? ... my whole life ... to deserve you?”

  
Sherlock mouth seemed to speak before he had any control over it.

 

_“Everything.”_

 

John, in the same trembling tone, turned back to Sherlock “Sherlock, I’ve told you - “ He started moving towards the detective. “- shut up”

 

He instantly regretted the words before they even passed his lips, but they needed to be said. John was going to hate him regardless after Mary spilled his secret too. Perhaps if he knew.. “I mean it, seriously. _Everything_ – everything you’ve ever done is what you did.

 

John spoke very softly and dangerously “Sherlock, one more word and I swear -”

 

_He needs to hear it. He kept John’s eye contact and refused to look away. ._

 

“You were a doctor who went to war. You’re a man who couldn’t stay in the suburbs for more than a month without performing your own dangerous investigation into your best friend’s whereabouts. _Said_ best friend is a sociopath who solves crimes as an alternative to getting high. That’s me, by the way.” He raised his hand and waved “Hello. Even the _landlady_ used to run a drug cartel.”

 

Johns face fell.

 

“John, you are addicted to a certain lifestyle. You’re abnormally attracted to dangerous situations ... and people... so is it _truly_ such a surprise that the woman you’ve fallen in love with conforms to that pattern?”

 

He grimaced briefly and then, with his eyes still fixed on Sherlock, pointed towards his wife

at the other side of the room. Sherlock could hear him attempt to suppress his tears.  
“But she wasn’t supposed to _be_ like that. Why is _she_ like that?”

 

Sherlock gave up. He looked away, not bearing to meet John's eyes anymore. He paused and forced himself to look at him again. His doctor. So full of hurt and betrayal.

 

“Because you _chose_ her.”

 

_Over me._

 

John stared back at him, his face unreadable. Sherlock held his gaze for as long as he could bear before John finally turned away. Sherlock looked up in relief. This was proving more difficult than he had originally thought.

 

John smiled tightly and walked casually towards the table with Mary’s file still on top. He held up a questioning hand and asked “Why is everything .. _always .. MY FAULT?!_ ” He shouted and kicked the table, sending the papers flying. He moved close to Mary and paused, examining her and trying to find the real woman beneath this mask. _How had he not known any of this_? Was he truly as stupid as Sherlock had said he was? That he missed the signs. That he couldn’t tell that she had been lying about _everything._

 

He kept Mary’s gaze, but addressed Sherlock.

 

“What do you already know? About her.”

 

Sherlock moved slowly, trying to close the gap between them. He was sure that Mary had indeed fallen for the doctor, but that wasn’t to say she wouldn’t hurt him if things took a turn for the worse.

“By her skill set, she is – or _was_ – an intelligence agent. Her accent is currently English but I suspect she is not. Her preferred firearm is a Sig Sauer p288, a weapon of preference for the US Military so maybe American. She’d used her unique skill set to disappear. Possibly because she turned on her employer, or more likely a job gone wrong and now the hunter has become the hunted.”

 

His face recoiled. “Perfect. So that’s what you were? An assassin?” He must be so thick. He looked at Sherlock then back to his _wife_. “How could I _not_ see that?”

 

Mary spoke with such an innocence that made her ability to hide her past all that clearer.

“But you _did_ see that.” John’s humourless and slightly murderous smile crept back onto his face. “- and you married me.” She paused and tilted her head slightly towards Sherlock. “Because he’s right.” Sherlock looked down a little, unusually not looking as pleased about being correct as he usually did. Mary spoke softly. “It’s what you like.”

 

“No. No.” John turned overwhelmed and walked aimlessly about the room. He had to get out. This room. It was too small. “I can’t do this.” He walked towards the door and grabbed the handle. Someone needs to leave.

 

Sherlock turned to face Mary, who looked at him with such loathing and disgust. He braced himself, preparing for her revelation  and the chastising he’d receive from John. After the way he had treated his soon-to-be _former_ wife, Sherlock just wanted it to be over. _Let me go back to being without you. You’ll be better off._

 

John turned back to see the two of them in a silent battle. Each looking as if they attempting to outstare the other. He choked out a bitter laugh. “Get out.”

 

Mary smiled and turned from Sherlock to face John. Her face instantly changed from manipulative to sorrow. Sherlock could have sworn she was about to cry and beg for forgiveness. _What an actress.._

 

“John, I -” She had started towards him, wringing her hands like a grieving widow but he shook his head.

 

“No. I mean, yes, but - “ He paused, raising a hand to correct himself. “I want you out. Of my life.” John kept his eyes focused on Mary but tilted his head to address Sherlock, “Am I still welcome, Sherlock? To stay here, I mean?”

 

Sherlock waited for Mary to speak. Waited and waited. He looked at John, still with his unanswered question in the air and broke the silence.

 

“Of course, John” His voice low and raspy. _This wasn’t right. Why wasn’t she saying anything?_ He looked at Mary who had turned back to face him and was seemingly also waiting on his response.  “Of course.”

 

John nodded, straightened his back and walked out the door.

 

Mary followed close behind him and shot Sherlock one last lingering look before she left. Nothing worried him more than that woman’s silence. If she waited till they got back to their place, there’s no telling what John would do. No. If she was going to tell John, it’d be in front of Sherlock. Perhaps she was saving it. As leverage. There’s no way John would talk to her after this evening though. She had missed her opportunity.

 

Hadn't she?

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is owned by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and the BBC. We are writing this to fulfil our own perverted desires and earn nothing from this fic other than satisfaction.


	10. Chapter 10

John took each shirt from the wardrobe and neatly folded it into his duffel bag. Placing the hanger back onto the pole and methodically selecting the next shirt. There would be creases, it was inevitable but it seemed somewhat insignificant now. He had resolved not to break down in front of his wife. Wife? What _did_ this make her now? Technically she wasn’t even a Mary, she was some other woman. Hand shaking he picked up the photo frame that held a snapshot of their married life from the side table.

 

He was holding Mary to him, grinning at the camera with bright, happy eyes. She looked at the camera too, seemingly happy and content with their situation. Grimacing, John placed the photo face down on the table and returned to emptying his side of the wardrobe.

 

So much for marital bliss. John didn’t want to stay here, in their house, he wanted to flee to the safety of Baker Street. There he wasn’t lied to, didn’t live a false life. The detective was brutally honest to a fault but John could do brutally honest. He could do mould ‘experiments’ and tantrums that rivalled a spoilt three year old but he couldn’t do lies.

 

As he piled his socks into the bag and zipped it closed he took one more look around the room. The doctor had been happy here but that was contaminated now. With a true Briton’s stiff upper lip he walked down the stairs and straight out the front door, without sparing a look to the quiet figure curled up on the couch watching him leave. As he strode down the street, eyes forward, back straight, the veteran never looked back once. The woman in the chair cried silently.

 

Sherlock was at the 221b flat contemplating cleaning out any body parts from the fridge as a courtesy. Or at least, placing them on the bottom shelf so that regular food could be relatively safer on the upper shelves. It appeared that his blogger would be returning. This would be a novel experience for him, when people departed from his life it was a rarity that they should return.

 

They usually left with utterances of obscenities aimed at a deduction that they disagreed with. There was _always_ one. None the less, a deduction is truth whether or not they agreed with it. It had to be true, deductions are science and science never lies. And now for the first time; a returnee. He stared into the kitchen from his chair and immediately realised an oversight; John’s chair was still banished to the John Room.

 

_Where are you? S.H._

_In a cab, 5 mins. J.W._

 

With peak traffic declining that would be sufficient time. Sherlock leapt up, flung open the John Room and grabbed the chair. Nothing would make John Watson feel at home more than this armchair. It simply had to be returned to its usual spot, obscured view to the kitchen or not. Sherlock imagined that John would be more emotional at this time and therefore require modified behaviour which would last as long as the detective could manage it. Probably the end of the week. But at least the good doctor would have his chair. Sherlock wrestled the chair out of the room and back across from his own in the living room as the front door opened and the cooing of Mrs. Hudson rang out from the front door.

 

“Oh John, it is good to have you back. I’m so sorry its under these circumstances. Let me make you a cup of tea, dear.” She hugged him to her cardigan and pulled away teary eyed.

 

“Hello Mrs. Hudson, I appreciate the sentiment but really, I just want to go upstairs and see what kind of a mess Sherlock has made to welcome me home.”

 

He gave her a pained smile and walked past her, up the stairs and into their flat. Mrs. Hudson watched him leave, a sad, wistful smile on her face. John wasn’t the same as before, poor man. She could only hope that Sherlock could fix him.

 

Sherlock looked up at John from his own armchair and nodded briefly.

 

“Would you like some tea?”

 

John’s eyebrows shot up into his hair as he stared at the detective lounging around in the armchair.

 

“Who are you, and what have you done with Sherlock Holmes; the most selfish git on the planet?”

 

Sherlock returned the raised eyebrows and rolled his eyes.

“Always so dramatic. A simple yes or no would have sufficed.” He huffed and closed his eyes. John placed his bags on the floor and hung his coat on the peg.

 

“A tea would be lovely, thanks.”

 

“I take it you still remember how I take it?” Sherlock returned without opening his eyes.

 

It was John’s turn to roll his eyes, of course Sherlock hadn’t changed. With the beginnings of a wry smile he wordlessly walked to the kitchen and grabbed the kettle.

 

“Where are your numerous experiments that usually hinder my tea making activities?”

 

Not surprisingly the detective did not choose to answer, instead remaining still and silent in his chair. Filling up the kettle and plonking it on the stove John turned to the fridge to grab the milk and discovered several severed limbs in various states of decomposition and a beaker with an eyeball floating in its murky water.

“Ah, never mind.”

 

\------------------------------------------------------------

 

John yawned and rubbed his eyes, cup of tea in one hand he sipped it as he sorted through the mail. Mostly bills and junk he took another swig and frowned at the bottom of the cup. Empty already. Typical. Getting up he turned the kettle on and returned to the last envelope.

 

“That’s strange.” he murmured aloud. Sherlock happened to walk into the lounge just as John spoke and loomed behind him staring at the mail.

 

“No address. Hand delivered. For you.” He observed to John who raised his eyebrow.

 

“Yes Sherlock, oh world’s greatest bloody detective, even I deduced that. Go deduce yourself a cup of tea.” It came out harsher than he had meant but Sherlock said nothing and plucked the daily paper from the table. Slumping into his armchair he flicked it open with a huff and disappeared behind it’s printed pages. John rolled his eyes but returned to the mysterious envelope.

 

_John H. Watson._

 

No return address, or indeed even their address, it was just blank. He ripped the end off and slid his finger in, opening it up quickly and poured the contents onto the table.

 

Photographs. _Dozens_ of them. Printed out on glossy paper with dates stamped neatly in the top corner. All of John taken in different locations. John felt queasy as he thumbed through picture after picture of himself and always next to him; Mary. One photograph had been taken two days ago, he had run to the shop to get some milk and was holding the plastic bag in one hand. He had been alone, but in the photograph he was holding hands with Mary.

 

He swallowed thickly and pushed them away a wave of nausea hit him. Sherlock, who had never begun to read his paper but had instead been studying John from his chair leapt up and strode over to the table. Picking up a couple of photos he whipped out his pocket magnifier and brought them to his face studying the grain and quality of the paper.

 

“Printed at home on a home printer. Store bought photo specific paper. Decent camera with polarized lense.” Sherlock moved to the window and held up one of the photos that showed John on the street with his arm fabricated to be around Mary’s waist. Quickly looking between the two photographs Sherlock announced exactly where she must’ve been standing to take the picture.

 

“But look Sherlock. In every picture, just look at her.” John moaned, angrily. The detective looked down at the table full of pictures and even he felt a chill down his spine.

 

In every photograph she was staring directly at the camera with a slightly unnatural smile and wide eyes. One hand was usually hidden by John but the other pointed to the camera as if she was showing John where she was.

 

“What the bloody hell does she think she’s playing at, Sherlock?” John’s voice wavered slightly, “She stalking me now? Hiding away and taking bloody photos!” He slammed his hand down on the table and cursed as it upset his mug.

 

“It would appear so. But for what purpose? What does she hope to achieve from this type of childish prank?” Sherlock mused aloud as he watched John wipe up the tea with a dishcloth. “We should retain these photographs as evidence.”

 

John scoffed as he dropped the dishcloth in the sink and turned back to the table.

 

“Since when have you been a stickler for following police procedures?”

 

_Since it concerns you._

 

“Since we’re dealing with a woman who knows where we live and is experiencing a psychotic break.” Sherlock voiced dryly as he took out his phone and started texting quickly. John frowned and looked at him suspiciously, craning his neck over the table to try and look but Sherlock angled away.

 

“Oi, what are you doing? Who are you texting?” John demanded, as he collected the photos and shoved them back in the envelope with a grimace.

 

“221b Baker Street is the centre of our operations. We can’t have your psychotic exes just wandering around out there unsupervised. I’m upping security.” He sniffed and pocketed his phone looking at John’s face to see when he worked out who he had text.

 

“Security...what?…..You texted Mycroft!” John accused loudly. The detective closed his eyes and sighed.

 

“Yes John, I texted Mycroft. You know as well as I that he has this flat constantly monitored. Internally _and_ externally, much to my resentment. At least it’s proving to have it’s uses, or will if he see’s anything remotely helpful.”

 

“Yeah, I’ve found a few of his cameras inside, nosy git.”

 

“Indeed. Well, he will want to know about this situation no doubt, if only as an excuse to check up on me. If my brother’s team is on par, we won’t get any more of these letters and she will be found and _dealt with_.”

 

“ _Dealt with_.” John repeated warily. Sherlock shrugged and nodded

 

“Yes John, Mycroft will remove her so she cannot bother you again.”

 

“You don’t mean… He won’t _kill_ her right?” John pushed, surely Mycroft didn’t just order the deaths of slightly mad, fairly dangerous psychopaths?

 

“That _would_ be the most efficient way.” Sherlock paused to look at the doctor’s horrified face and rolled his eyes. “However, Mycroft is aware of your emotional attachment to her regardless of recent events, and will merely have her contained and institutionalised.” A marginally better outcome for John’s psyche if nothing else.

 

“Well, that would be in her best interests. I know that she was dismissed from working at the surgery. Probably didn’t help.” John stared at the envelope and could only think of how happy she looked on their wedding day.

 

“Lies, John. It was all lies. She lies to everyone, that's what she does. Its what she has trained to be and who she is. Everything from the first second, fabricated!” Sherlock struggled to contain his volume as he thought of the liar who had claimed John’s heart and shredded it.

 

“I know that, Sherlock, but she was my _wife_!” John stood up, glaring at Sherlock over the table and both hands pressing down on the table.

 

“Fabrication! She was never really your wife because _you_ were never really hers!” Sherlock shouted back. John stared at him, mouth open but no words to reply. No rebuttal. Instead he turned on his heel and stormed into his room, slamming the door shut behind him.

 

The detective stared after him. He suspected he had gone too far again but why couldn’t John see that his mislaid feelings of protection for her were based on falsified information. They were never really married as she isn’t even a real person, everything was faked. Sighing he took the envelope of photos up to his room, hurriedly changed and left the flat without saying another word. Mycroft would want to see them and for once, working with his brother instead of against him was for the greater good.

 

Besides, it was time to visit his dealer again, his supply was running inadequately low.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is owned by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and the BBC. We are writing this to fulfil our own perverted desires and earn nothing from this fic other than satisfaction.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The music referred to in this chapter that Sherlock is playing is 'Nocturne in C Sharp Minor' then 'Reminiscence' during Johns flashback, both played by Olafur Arnalds and Alice Sara Ott 
> 
> Found on Spotify: https://play.spotify.com/album/3e9ZZe5qexHd61X9ucUNxh
> 
> I very much recommend listening to the track while reading as that is how it was written and intended to be read. Trust me, you'll be thankful you did ;)

Sherlock peered up from his experiment at the kitchen bench to discreetly check on his blogger. The latter sat in his chair, sipping on his tea and staring absently at the wallpaper above Sherlock’s chair. The detective huffed and tipped the rest of his tea down the sink.

 

“Tea, John?”

 

John didn’t respond, lost in his own world of thoughts, a place that Sherlock could not follow and this was not acceptable. “John?” The man shook his head and blinked

 

“Sorry Sherlock I was somewhere else. What did you say?”

 

The blogger’s face was empty. Not happy, not sad, just nothing. John had been like this all day and now as the evening drew on he was still unchanging. Since those photos had arrived the day before he had been withdrawn and quiet. This was problematic as Sherlock was unable to read John if he wasn’t doing anything. No body language or vocal tones to read left the detective very much in the dark.

 

“I might head to bed Sherlock, its been one hell of a day. Wife’s a psychopath, you know?”

 

He gave the detective that pained smile again that made his chest tighten and placed his cup in the sink next to a dismembered finger which he didn’t even seem to notice.

 

“Night.”

 

He trudged to his room and closed the door behind him with a soft click. John had smiled when Sherlock informed him of the John Room and all of the banished belongings. It was comforting in a way that Sherlock had created this room, a private place despite him having moved out. His bed, pristinely made and the small collection of objects that one seems to obtain when living anywhere were arranged around the room in a strangely neat fashion. His toothbrush, slippers, there was dust on his bed with one disturbed patch where something had recently been moved but he put it out of his mind. It was Sherlock’s flat, he was sure that he had been in here at some point.

 

Sherlock huffed as John walked to his room and put his flask of viscous fluids down. It appeared that while someone had returned to him, it was not John the Blogger. He was somehow less, which puzzled Sherlock. Blogger John would have berated him for leaving a finger in the sink but John had either not noticed or ignored it all together. Sherlock had expected the playful banter that usually resulted from body parts in the food preparation areas but instead found himself unsatisfied. Instead of focusing on the perplexing case that John represented to him, for now Sherlock would focus on his other case. Perhaps a mixture of positive and negative emotions would change the effect of the drug, it would be careless of him to forego this opportunity to find out and since his own feelings were confused about how best to approach the broken John Watson perhaps this case would occupy his mind for a time.

 

John pulled out his flannel pajama bottoms and soft cotton shirt and shook the dust from the top sheet, discarding it as a lost cause on the floor and slipped beneath the cool blanket. The day had been exhausting and his heart felt weary as though it had already travelled too many miles. Closing his eyes he tried to push Mary far from his thoughts and fall into sleep’s embrace.

 

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

_A deep haze of fog and night covered the desert as John tried to gather his bearings. Each foot forward putting a strain on his leg and his shoulder under the weight of his army fatigues and equipment. He could hear the deafening thunder of bombs as they exploded and felt the pulses of the shockwaves pass through his body. The only visual indication of the explosions were the blinding flashes of light that pierced the haze for a fraction of a second.The slightly blurred and out of focus vision was just clear enough to let him see his path, but too vague to provide any answers. He fought, one step after another, determined to get to his unknown destination. He couldn't remember why he needed to get there all he knew was that his life depended on it. The thought consumed him. Maybe it was another life. Someone important._

_He pressed his eyes tightly shut, hoping to shake whatever had clouded his sight. When he opened them it was gone. All of it. No desert. No chaos. Just a long hallway made of stone? Marble? It was dark and the walls were dripping with moisture. He could smell the moss and stagnant water and something, in a whole new way, felt very wrong. He was compelled to continue his journey forwards._

_He ran his fingers along the uneven surface of the stone as he made his way into the tunnel. There was a light, a very dim light right down the end, but how far away was that? How long had he been walking for? He looked down to see if his leg was still up to the task and found his cane already in his hand. He flexed his fingers around the handle, hating the way it felt cold and hard in his palm. He thought he was passed this but it seemed to be getting worse. He struggled forwards, slowly but surely. One hand on his cane and the other still pressed against the wall, not for guidance now but for assistance. He could barely hold himself up. His leg was giving out entirely. The light was so close now he imagined he could reach out and touch it. The light spilled out from around an old, wooden door with thick, iron hinges worn with use._

_He cried out both in pain and anger as he threw his cane to the side, dropping to his knees on the sodden, mossy ground. Fat lot of good it did him now. He crawled the remaining distance to the door. It must have only been a few feet but it felt like a mile. The damp and cold from the floor was sinking through his fatigues and chilling him to the bone. No, not his fatigues. His regular clothes. His jeans, shirt and old oatmeal jumper. The were becoming ruined from the mud and the filth seeping into the fabric._

_He reached up to the worn handle and tried to turn it, his hand slippery from the mud. With a grunt he threw his shoulder into the door and It swung forward with an ominous creak and crashed into the stone wall behind it. The sound echoed back down the tunnel in a wave that made his ears ring. When the sound faded he opened his eyes and looked through the opening with instant regret. He screamed and his heart sank._

Sherlock lay on his bed absentmindedly tapping his fingers against the strings of his violin. John had forbidden him to play his violin in the small hours of the morning in an attempt to retain some semblance of normality and he had yet to find a suitable replacement to dull the hours until morning. Of course, he had _tried_ the ‘sleeping’ option as John had begged but his mind wouldn't allow it. Too much data coursing through it and how could it not? The last few days had been straining for a simple mind. Sherlock had been filtering through old data and memories trying to find the signs of Mary’s betrayal. Maybe he could find something to aid John’s emotional state. He had rather aggressively expressed his desire not to talk about the matter. This made it very difficult for Sherlock to gather data about when he wasn't there. He had missed the whole start of their relationship, which pained him more than he thought it would. Or should. He needed to know every last detail to try and deduce a logical conclusion.

 

He lay staring at the ceiling, his dressing gown neatly tied over his pyjamas. Sifting through the data, he heard a noise that shook him from his mind palace and dumped him unceremoniously back into reality. He rolled over and stared at the floor, as if trying to see John's room through the floorboards below him. Listened for anything at all. Looked for any signs of movement. _John wouldn't be up now, it's only 2:30_. He catalogued the silence and filtered out anything unimportant. Traffic, the hum of the fridge in the kitchen, footsteps of night owls in the streets until there was only here and only what was in that room, in that bed below him.

 

_"SHERLOCK!"_

 

The anguished exclamation of his name made Sherlock launch himself off his bed before the end of the last syllable. He sprinted down the stairs skipping steps entirely until he found himself at John’s door. He crashed through the door to see John still asleep but his head and arms thrashing, him calling out and screaming unintelligible things Sherlock couldn't understand. He needed to stop him struggling before he injured himself, without thinking he dove on top of the bed and straddled John at the hips, pinning the veteran’s shoulders to the bed he shook the man and called his name firmly.

 

"John!" He shook him. "JOHN!"

 

John pushed himself up onto his elbows, his eyes wide open and locking onto Sherlock’s instantly, Drawing long deep breaths he exhaled slowly, willing his pulse to stop racing so he could gather himself. Sherlock could see his eyes were wet, he'd clearly been crying in his sleep but for once he kept his deduction to himself.

 

John blinked and shot his gaze around the room. Home. He was home. In his bed in Baker Street. And Sherlock was on top of him? He tried to shift back, away from Sherlock but, how was he such a heavy git, there was nothing of him?

 

Sherlock felt John’s discomfort with their current positions but stayed his ground. He moved his hands up around John’s face and held it still, staring deep into his eyes, as if trying to examine his brain from the outside.

 

"John this is important. You were showing signs of post traumatic stress, probably residual from Afghanistan and we need to make sure you don't have a physical reaction as it could trick your body back into having a psychosomatic - "

 

"Sherlock.."

 

"Your limp could come back John, or it could make your shoulder appear to be in pain when it has no reason to, both are completely functional but your average brain maybe can't tell from the stress and - "

 

" _Sherlock!_ Enough!"

 

His tone caught Sherlock by surprise and he pulled his hands back and rested them by his side. He stared confusingly at John for a few moments before John sighed.

 

"Sherlock, what are you doing here?"

 

"I heard you scream? You called out for me, I thought you were awake and something may have happened."

 

"No, Sherlock, I was asleep." He sighed. He hadn't had a dream this bad since Sherlock had.. cleared Moriarty’s web of lies and people and whatever other filth that man had planned. Before that, he hadn't had nightmares since before he met Sherlock.

 

"Well, how was I to know from upstairs? I came down thinking you were in danger and when I saw you flailing around, the best course of action was to make sure you didn't injure yourself so I had to keep you restrained?" John looked unconvinced. "Apologies, I acted too quickly. I didn't think."

 

"You always think. Think of everything. You're right, though. I _could_ have hurt myself so thanks for that. But I'm awake now.. so.." He tilted his head towards Sherlock’s groin that was pressed against his abdomen and coughed.

 

"Right, yes, of course." Sherlock climbed off him and sat on the edge of the bed.

 

An almost uncomfortable moment had passed with not a single word spoken. Sherlock had gone about adding the new information to his hard drive. He felt a relatively new sensation in his chest. Of course relief, that John had indeed been safe. But something else. Something more.

 

John's attention had turned to .. was this an erection? It _is_ early and he did have the monster of all nightmares, god knows where his head was at the moment. This had been worse than the others, though. Others were just reliving memories. The war. Times with Sherlock before the fall. This was something new entirely. He shifted the covers to conceal himself and spoke quietly.

 

"It was you."

 

Sherlock turned his head and tried to read whatever he could from his doctor’s face. The worry in his brow, the perspiration at his temples and a look in his eyes that the detective couldn't quite place. He could read years of information from John, he always could but he had never quite grasped the concept of sentiment. Emotion. So after some disappointment at being unable to predict his next sentence, he simply stated "Oh?"

 

John knew this was going to be fruitless. There had never been a point to explaining to Sherlock why severed heads in the fridge upset him, or why he felt the need for an emotional attachment as well as physical for the women he dated. Sherlock didn't do 'sentiment'. He didn’t even know why he was telling him this but the words seemed to pass his lips before he even knew he was saying them.

 

"You were tortured." He let out another sigh. Tried to regain his breath again but his lungs felt so tight. "They had you chained from the ceiling and .." His eyes dropped.. avoiding Sherlock's careful gaze at all costs, though he could feel it burning his skin. "..They killed you." He tried again for another breath but his body was betraying him. ".. I lost you again. You probably started in on them, telling that his wife was cheating on him or something.." and made a pathetic attempt at a half-laugh. Trying to lighten the, sudden intensity that had blanketed the room.

 

But Sherlock had known that scene all too well. What if he _had_ gotten himself killed in that room, not six months before? What if he had left John with Mary? Even thinking about what may have happened to him left a heavy feeling in his gut.

 

"I didn't die in there, John. It was just a collection of random images from your subconscious reacting after a rather large input of undesirable and I'd imagine rather painful information but - ". Those eyes. They had changed from.. was he hurt again? Did he say something not good? Not again. He didn't - feel right? When he made John hurt. God knows that dreadful woman of his had hurt him enough. Though so had he.

 

"I'm still here, John. I wont leave you again."

 

"I know, its stupid. I don't know why I said anything." John waved a hand dismissively but Sherlock knew this, very well even from interrogations. He was dismissive, avoiding the subject and was suddenly reluctant of the information he _did_ provide. His whole body language had shifted. Oh right - daft - There was a _man_ in his bedroom. Obviously he's getting uncomfortable. He stood, adjusted his dressing gown and headed for the door.

 

"Thank you."

 

Sherlock stopped. turned his head and gave John a small smile. The kind he would give after they had chased serial killers through the streets of London or eluding the police like they had done more times than they should admit. The kind that he gave when he knew John was safe.

 

He clicked the door shut and stared thoughtfully at it, as though it could provide him with answers to the many questions that chased themselves around his head. John was so different now, Sherlock knew that kind of different. This was a man who had trusted completely and had that trust irrevocably broken. He remembered back to his university days, when he chose to dabble in the circus that was British higher education.

 

Rather than dwell on the men that had made his trust so hard to earn, he went to his violin case and flicked it open.  Delicately he took the bow and rosin, rubbing the block onto the strings with the motion almost automatic. He placed the violin onto his shoulder after briefly plucking at its strings and adjusting the fine tuning pegs at the bridge. Sherlock walked to the window, staring out into the grey street and drew his bow across the strings quietly. John had always chastised him for playing his violin at ‘socially inappropriate’ hours which Sherlock had always countered with ‘creativity does not wait for an appropriate time’ but John usually won these arguments. In this case however, John was clearly already up, even if he _did_ choose to stay in his room, so Sherlock saw no harm in playing quietly to himself.

 

In prior years he and his previous instrument had composed many nocturnes as the detective was usually awake during the hours where the night was at its most beautiful and inviting. He pulled the bow across the first string, a quiet, unassuming note that throbbed with vibrato and swelled to a sweet, pure note that sang high and steady. Bending into the notes he swayed gently as the music flowed through his fingers and resonated out from the Stradivarius. Sherlock breathed with each phrase, inhaling and releasing it slowly as if singing through the instrument. He lost himself quickly, he always did when he played it was one of the reasons he had learned at all. Before John, this was the only way to quiet his mind, to get a few precious moments of peace.

 

John dropped his head in his hands and willed himself to stop shaking. Damn adrenaline would keep him up for hours now but he couldn't bring himself to follow Sherlock out. He knew that he had reacted poorly to the man’s helpful intentions but PTSD was so common among veterans that he almost thought it his duty to deal with it alone. It was humiliating to be calling out in his sleep.

 

He sat up against the wall and tucked his legs to his chest, resting his chin on his knee. A cup of tea wouldn’t go astray, but he would have to wait for Sherlock to return to his room first so he could be spared the indignity of facing him with his eyes still red. As he did his best to think of anything but the content of his dream his mind was captured by the music that seeped in from beneath the door.

 

“Oh….. Sherlock….” he whispered to himself. The haunting melody stilled his heart and slowed his breathing until he too breathed as one with each delicate phrase. The piece ebbed and flowed as Sherlock pulled at the time freely and stopped holding back the dynamics. Instead he allowed himself to move from pianissimo and swell with each apex of the melody, giving it character and soul. Sherlock was hardly aware of what he was wringing from his instrument, his eyes unfocused as he played on.

 

John could hardly breathe. He had never experienced such frisson from pure music before. Unbidden his mind took him back to Afghanistan. The helicopter that flew in, blowing sand in a halo beneath it. Captain Watson, weighed down by armour and medical supplies, running beside two men carrying a stretcher. Blood dripped behind them as the man that lay on it groaned quietly, shrapnel embedded in his legs and chest.

 

_“Private you stay awake, you hear me, that’s an order! Get him on and lets go!” John shouted at the men around him, as the stretcher was placed on the floor of the vehicle the men ran out leaving John with his patient. The helicopter left quickly, with a jerk that caused Captain Watson to curse and steady himself on the cargo netting before leaning over the injured man. A quick preliminary assessment of the soldier did not bolster his spirits. He was bone weary, having worked for fourteen hours already and no end in sight as the medic calls kept coming._

_“What’s your name Private?”_

_The man attempted to talk but a dark bubble of blood burst up from between his teeth and dripped down his face. He looked up at John with large, frightened eyes. It was those eyes he dreamt of and woke up screaming. The man was young, too young for this. And here he was, in the medic chopper, full of metal and losing blood that John would be unable to replace. Immediately he knew it was a sucking chest wound and that at least his left lung would be collapsed by now judging by the laboured breathing._

_“I don’t want to die, Captain. Ain’t never even kissed a girl.” The private clutched at John’s wrist and coughed again, the thick liquid already coating his chin and uniform wherever it wasn’t ripped with metal protruding out from the flesh. His skin was pale and clammy, already in shock with rapid blood loss if the red liquid that was pooling out over the floor was any indication._

_“No one’s dying today, do you hear me?” John gruffly replied. He wanted to put pressure on all the lacerations but he only had two hands and this soldier was gravely injured. A sharp sliver of metal was in his abdomen, the uniform sticky and soaked around it. His legs were damaged beyond repair with the arteries pumping blood to flesh that was no longer there. The soldier’s eyes closed and John slapped his cheek._

_“I said awake Private! Hands here.” He tried to place the man’s hands on his stomach to help staunch the blood flow but his hands dropped uselessly. John looked up at man's eyes and found them unblinking and glossy._

_“Private!” He shook the man but no response, already the radio of the pilot was alive with pleas for a medic immediately. Another IED had wiped out a platoon, of the survivor’s few would still be alive by the time John arrived and fewer still would hang on to life long enough for his ministrations to hold.  The pilot called to John for guidance_

_“Captain?” John stared at his hands, bloody from fingernails up to his forearms. He felt almost out of focus from reality, it wasn’t until turbulence knocked him onto his back, into the Private’s blood, that he snapped back and focused._

_“ETA?”_

_“Fifteen minutes, Sir.”_

_“Yes, Christ, yes just go.”_

_The chopper dipped to the left and carried them towards the latest emergency. John wiped the blood on his fatigues and did his best to clean his hands with the saline solution in his bag._

_John had cried that day. When relief finally arrived and he was released back to the camp after some thirty six hours he had collapsed onto his bunk, still wearing his bloody clothes. It was to be the first time in his deployment that he had come to terms with the mortality rate of his brothers in arms. He couldn’t save them all. Why couldn’t he save them, he had taken an oath. Sworn to serve and protect, to save them. He later learned the name of that Private; Private Lucas James Cawe. Just nineteen years old. Nineteen. Too young to bleed out in a helicopter, body full of metal._

_Private Cawe was one of seventeen men John lost that day. The other sixteen merged into one man, all the same. Some went frightened, some at peace and most not even conscious that their time had come. But it was only that young soldier that he remembered with devastating clarity. Those eyes._

 

John broke from his thoughts, his cheeks wet and chest heaving as he thought back to Private Cawe and the sixteen souls he failed. The music had stilled, the last cadences of the nocturne faded and John felt relieved as though he was a puppet whose strings had just been severed. Taking a deep breath he wiped the tears from his face and looked at the door.

 

Sherlock had heard the wracking sobs from John’s room. Heard him gasp for breath between them and the pain in each cry. He faltered for only a second before continuing on until the sobs became less frequent and quieter. Slowly he allowed the musical net he had spun in the room to unravel and finished quietly, slowly dying away to nothing but the bow dragged across the strings. Placing his violin back neatly in its case and tucked the bow into its pocket.

 

“You didn’t fail them, John.” Sherlock murmured quietly as he passed the doctor’s room and went upstairs to his own.

 

John caught the faint words and wrapped his arms around himself, shaking his head and burying it in his hands again.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is owned by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and the BBC. We are writing this to fulfil our own perverted desires and earn nothing from this fic other than satisfaction.


	12. Chapter 12

John woke on his stomach with a jerk, the distinct feeling of being watched making his skin crawl. Snaking his hand to beneath his pillow he grabbed the pistol, whipped it out and rolled over with practised ease onto his knees. It was a reflex position, his muscle memory remembered for him and before he realised he had his finger on the trigger. The gun didn’t waver as he pointed it directly between the eyes of his intruder; Sherlock.

 

“Good morning, John.” The oblivious man grinned at him. John dropped his gun immediately, turning the safety back on and winced as the adrenaline coursed through his system. His heartbeat throbbed in his ears and hammered at his chest. Taking deep breaths he sat back on his heels he rubbed his eyes and shook his head.

 

“Bloody hell Sherlock, I could’ve _shot_ you!” John held the gun lightly in his hands, he never slept without it. It wasn’t the safest practice, and not at all legal in the densely populated city but it had become the only way for him to sleep at all.

 

Sherlock was not concentrating at all. He was stuck, staring at John, slightly opened mouthed as if about to say something but frozen. Wearing just flannel trousers that hung slightly too loose on his hips, thoughts seemed difficult to grasp and he had forgotten entirely why he had come into John’s room so early in the morning at all.

 

“Sherlock? Sherlock!” John waved his hand in front of the man’s face who blinked rapidly and looked at John. “What are you doing in here? What time is it? Its not even bloody sun up yet!”

 

“I’m.. just letting you know I’m off to a case. Nothing more than a five but I’m bored, be back later.” With one last look at John’s bare chest he waved and headed back out the door. Seconds later John heard the front door shut and collapsed back on his bed.

 

Nearly gave him a heart attack the idiot! Creeping up on an ex serviceman while he sleeps, how stupid can a man be? And since when did he inform John of his activities. John was used to waking up and finding Sherlock’s bed not even slept in only for the detective to waltz back in hours or even days later with no explanation. Just a demand for tea and then fussing over expired experiments.

 

Idiot.

 

Well, at least no one was hurt this time and since it was well before sun up John felt he was entitled to go back to sleep. Disappearing back beneath the still warm covers he pulled them over his head and tried to drop back into the peaceful sleep he had been enjoying.

 

 

\---------------------------------------------------

 

John looked up from his book towards the front door as he was interrupted by the doorbell. Rolling his eyes he pushed himself up to his feet and slid the bookmark into his novel before setting it down on the table. Who could it be? Perhaps Sherlock had forgotten his key again, or an errant client who hadn’t emailed in advance. John trotted down the stairs and called through the closed door

 

“Hello? Who is it?”

 

“I strongly advise you to the open the door, Doctor Watson. I am _not_ a patient man.”

 

John stilled, staring at the door willing the man he recognised as Sherlock’s powerful brother Mycroft to please go away.

 

“Um, Sherlock isn’t here Mycroft, you’ll have to come back later, I’m a little busy.”

 

“You were reading a poorly written detective novel where the murderer is obviously Mr Bill Grant, the local policeman, in your armchair. Open this door, my _brother_ is precisely what I wish to discuss with you.”

 

John huffed under his breath ‘stupid sod spoiled the ending’ but begrudgingly leant forward and unlocked the door. The man that greeted him was dressed in an impeccably pressed suit that was worth more than a year’s worth of the average Briton’s salary. An umbrella tapped against the ground impatiently as John stared at Sherlock’s brother.

 

“Good afternoon, Mycroft.”

 

“Doctor Watson.”

 

John stepped away from the door and allowed his visitor access who swiftly strode up the stairs and disappeared into the flat.

 

“ _Please, do come in you insufferable prat_.” He muttered beneath his breath as he closed the door and followed the man up the stairs.

 

When he entered the flat he found Mycroft perched at the edge of Sherlock’s chair, leaning on his umbrella.

 

“Take a seat John. I do not have time for pleasantries. I am needed to stop mass conflict breaking out in Europe and must make the best of the few minutes I have here.” Mycroft waved at John’s armchair as John stared at him with eyebrows raised. The man had ordered him to sit in his own chair, in his own flat! And then started prattling on about how bloody important he was going to stop World War III! Only Mycroft was able to make a resident uncomfortable in their own home. As John sat down Mycroft began again, his voice tight and annoyed.

 

“John, when you first took an interest in Sherlock, I encouraged you -” John couldn't help but butt in with an indignant laugh.

 

“Took an interest? You bloody well kidnapped me and bribed me to be your informant on the activities of your own brother!” Mycroft did not look at all perturbed or remorseful and continued as if John had said nothing at all.

 

“You can imagine after the support I showed how disappointed I must be now to see that your have allowed your own troubles to affect your supervision. We have yet to find your ex-wife as she is proving difficult to locate. But she is of low priority when compared to Sherlock.”

 

“Mr Holmes, your brother is a grown man who can look after himself" He paused. "most of the time.”

 

“Don’t try that with me Watson, we _both_ know he is incapable of many skills regarding social interaction which hinders him in every direction. He doesn’t eat, he performs unsavoury experiments in food preparation areas and sometimes does not wear clothing in public.”

 

John’s lip quirked into a smirk as he remembered the Palace incident but the smirk was wiped away almost immediately when he saw that Mycroft was less than amused.

 

“Do you know where Sherlock is now?”

 

“Out. I don’t need to know where he is at every second of…”

 

“Are you aware of his history with substance abuse? Specifically cocaine?”

 

John swallowed thickly as his mouth went instantly dry. His affirmation came out as a strange grating sound which Mycroft appeared to accept as a response.

 

“Indeed. Well, my brother is beginning another foray into recreational drugs and you have not noticed. I understand that your observational skills are not as finely tuned as Sherlock’s but how can you live with a man and not notice his _cocaine habit_? If he is not stopped he will continue on this path of self destruction and most likely bring you down with him. What do you have to say for yourself?”

 

He felt like he was being lectured at school by a foreboding Head Master and almost shrank back into his chair.

 

“Well, I’ve been a bit preoccupied with Mary being…”

 

“Yes, yes we know all about that but that is not a valid excuse.” The man waved away John’s excuse as if it were nothing.

 

“Excuse? Excuse me but my wife is a psychopath!  Her whole existence is a lie! My marriage isn’t even real! My _child_ -” Mycroft pressed his fingers against his temples trying to combat the migraine he could feel slowly tightening around his head.

 

“John you are being tediously dull and repetitive. We _all_ know about Mary. The focus needs to be back on Sherlock’s addiction. You need to pay more attention. I will not tolerate the chaos he leaves behind him again, you are responsible for him Watson. Take action, do it now.”

 

John couldn’t help but feel angry. How dare Mycroft make him Sherlock’s guard dog when he was dealing with his own crisis!

 

“Look here you self involved ….”

 

“Stop right there, Doctor Watson.” Mycroft got up and stood in John’s personal space. “ _You_ are responsible for him. _You_ will stop this addiction and force him to face it. Or I _will_ get involved. Do you understand?”

 

John looked up at the man who stared down at him coldly with great expectation. He felt the anger seep away and be replaced by a primal fear accompanied by his body activating the fight response.

 

“I can see your pupils are dilated, your breathing has shallowed and you have curled your hands into fists. Do you intend to fight me, Doctor Watson? I can only strongly suggest you reconsider.”

 

John closed his eyes and took several deep breaths. Mycroft nodded with satisfaction and strode to the door.

 

“I will take my leave now, Watson. Sort this out, or I will be back. I see that you understand what my involvement will entail.” The door clicked as he left and John waited until he heard the front door close before picking up the cushion on Sherlock’s chair and punching it into the wall.

 

“Bloody prick dares to come into my home and intimidate me. It’s _his_ bloody brother. I should’ve bloody well hit him in his bloody stupid face, the bastard!”

 

It took John a few minutes to realise that his anger was entirely misplaced. Yes, the obnoxiously self important Holmes had practically invited himself in, berated John and left but the younger, equally as obnoxious Holmes was using. Again!

 

John paced around the kitchen wanting nothing more than to take the table and throw it against the wall. However, he reminded himself that throwing things was the immature response expected from Sherlock, not John the ‘mature’ one. Taking two very deep breaths and exhaling slowly through his nose he took out his phone and called Lestrade.

 

“Lestrade.” His voice was gruff, he obviously had not checked the caller I.D before picking up.

 

“Lestrade, it’s John. We need to talk.” John tried to keep most of the anger from his voice but Lestrade was a detective and had some deducing skills of his own.

 

“You sound stressed John, you alright?”

 

“Look, can we just meet up at the pub? Now?”

 

“O’ course. I’ll be there in ten.”

 

“Thanks.” John hung up and pocketed his phone before he threw it.

 

“Bloody Sherlock!” He yelled at the empty flat hoping it may alleviate some of his anger but it only served to remind him that Sherlock was not there, and John had no idea where he could be or what he was doing. “Bloody Sherlock” he repeated under his breath.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is owned by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and the BBC. We are writing this to fulfil our own perverted desires and earn nothing from this fic other than satisfaction.


	13. Chapter 13

John entered the pub and sourced himself a beer and a booth. He had caught a taxi here and was doing his best not to glower at anyone who happened to think the booth was free. Within minutes Lestrade entered and after a quick scan spotted him.

 

“Hey John, you right?” He offered as a greeting, sitting opposite the tired looking man as he nursed his beer.

 

“Lestrade, how often has Sherlock been out with you on cases in the past few weeks?” John cut straight to the point. If the conclusion he had come to as soon as Mycroft had left was right, then Lestrade had much to answer for.

 

“Hello Lestrade, nice to see you mate.” Lestrade greeted himself sarcastically, but he looked at John with concern. John was usually the polite one who made the greetings on behalf of Sherlock, not pointed like this. “John, I haven’t seen Sherlock in ages, he’s been dodging my texts.” John stiffened but waited for the detective to continue.

“I’ve needed him for a few cases of late, but he hasn’t been around. Doesn’t even bothering answering to say no, just ignores me, you know what he’s like.” John remained silent, not even nodding to acknowledge that Lestrade had spoken at all. After an awkward moments silence Lestrade quizzed him,  “What’s going on? This isn’t like you?”

 

“Did it not occur to you to mention it to me?” John spoke quietly through almost gritted teeth

 

“Mention what?”

 

“That Sherlock was refusing all cases.”

 

Lestrade paused. “Well, not really. I just assumed you two were busy….” He rubbed the back of his neck uncomfortably and looked away. John blinked, uncomprehending.

 

“Busy? We solve cases for a living!” Lestrade coughed and cleared his throat.

 

“Yeah… but we all thought down at the Yard that since you moved back….. after all this time…….you and him…. well….. I dunno…”

 

It finally dawned on John just what the detective was implying and he hit his hand on the table.

 

“Dammit Greg. We’re not…. I'm not..  oh just never mind. He’s using again. I _know_ you know he’s used before and what a problem that was. We’ve been played like a rebellious school kid’s parents. He told me he’s going cases with you, he tells you he’s _busy_ with me. Both of us are none the wiser, meanwhile he’s off shooting up, _Christ_ knows where!” John slumped in the booth and rubbed the bridge of his nose as Lestrade processed that information. He whistled, and shook his head.

 

“I had no idea. Didn’t even think to ask. On it again, huh?”

 

“Yes. And I got a rather unpleasant visit from Holmes the Elder informing me of Holmes the Younger’s less than savoury activities. What are we going to do?”

 

“Rehab?” Lestrade offered but John shook his head.

 

“No that’s no good now, he’s too bloody famous for his own good. I’m going to have to keep him at home. Can’t get you lot involved, at least not officially. Bloody hell. Why didn’t we see this coming, Greg? Why didn’t I see this coming?” John shook his head and mentally kicked himself. Nosy git was right, he was too involved in his own issues to see that  Sherlock was doing anything untoward. Lestrade seemed to be under the same impression, though he was much more sympathetic than Mycroft or even John was.

 

“You’ve gone through a lot John, you can’t go blaming yourself for an addict’s relapse….”

 

John interrupted, pointing his finger at the detective angrily

 

“He is not an addict! He did one case. One bloody case for you and now he’s back on it! This is as much your fault as it is mine.”

 

“Now hold on there one second, mate. Once an addict, always an addict. See it all the time down at the station. They claim they’re clean but give them the opportunity and they’ll always go. Every time.”

 

“Yes, and you gave him his opportunity. A drug case? Really? Did you even think? Do you even bloody think at all?!” John yelled, drawing the attention of other patrons and earning a stern glare from the barman.

 

“God damnit John, I thought he’d be fine, how was I supposed to know he’d go off the deep end?”

 

“Because you’re a _detective_!” John shot back angrily. As both men glared at each other Lestrade’s radio unit crackled with the Comms unit relaying information to him.

 

“I have to go John. Text me if you need a hand.” And with that he was gone leaving John to nurse his half finished beer. Knocking it back in one large swig he left the pub and waved for a taxi to head home. Sherlock would have much to answer for.

 

\-----------------------------------------------------------

 

_It wasn’t good enough. It didn’t get his attention, either of them. Just made it more challenging.  Well, challenging was something she could handle._

 

Mary had positioned herself outside of the house where John’s sister resided. If doctored pictures of her and John wasn’t enough to warrant a reaction then more extreme measures needed to be taken. Harriet walked out her front door, locking it and pocketing the key she walked over to her car. Mary raised her camera, zooming close and catching a dozen shots in the short time that the lady took to enter her car. Taking a few more shots of her in the car Mary smiled smugly and pocketed the camera.

 

_This was definitely going to get his attention._

 

\-------------------------

 

John sat in his armchair, a small glass of amber liquid in one hand and a baggy of white powder scrunched up in the fist of the other. He was the eye of the perfect storm that was their flat. John had come home from the pub furious. Angry with Lestrade for being such a bloody idiot. Angry with Mycroft for not dealing with it himself. Beyond angry at Sherlock for betraying his trust, now more than ever. _How could he?_ After a few mouthfuls of hard liquor he had decided that the best way to confront Sherlock would be with proof. And liquid courage. The latter was somewhat easier to procure than the former, Sherlock had always had a knack for hiding what he did not want to be found.

 

After finding various possible drug paraphernalia in inconspicuous places and tearing through all the rooms in the flat he found himself at Sherlock’s bedroom door. Although this had once been his room, he had never set foot in it since Sherlock had claimed it. It was the very last line of the detective’s personal space to cross and even inebriated as John was, it weighed heavily on him that this was a necessary invasion.

 

Crossing the boundary he stepped inside and found it surprisingly organised. Double bed with silk sheets, rich, deep colours and sheafs of paper with various notes or manuscript with music hastily scrawled lying randomly in piles. It felt wrong being there. And John felt guilty until he upturned a pile of washed clothes to find a well worn plastic food baggy and suspect white powder inside. Hardly enough for a fix for someone as accustomed to it as Sherlock.

 

All at once the anger rushed back and he kicked the detective’s bed. Cursing he raged more at the inanimate objects in the room before slamming the door behind him and topping up his drink. He knew he was probably consuming a little too much liquid courage, but this was the only way he could hold himself together.

 

It had been several hours since John had returned from the pub but he was ready for him now. Just as he finished his fourth rather generously poured standard drink, a calm looking Sherlock slipped into the flat looking curiously at John.

 

“You never drink alone. What’s happened?” As he got closer to the chair, Sherlock skimmed his slightly glossy eyes over the man, zeroing in on the bag clutched in a fist that was whitening at the knuckles. “Oh.”

 

John nodded, slightly at first but harder until his shoulders moved with him and he leapt to his feet waving the bag at the detective.

 

“Yes, yes, fucking ‘oh’ you lying bastard. All this time I thought you were fine, I thought you were clean. Well what the _bloody hell_ do you call this? Explain!” He threw the bag at Sherlock’s feet and pointed at it.

 

Sherlock had approximately three seconds to make a choice. To tell John that it was left over from the case where he had been ‘undercover’ or to admit that he was using again. And the reason why. Usually, when faced with a dilemma such as this the choice was easy; lie. He didn’t care about people’s opinions. But John wasn’t _people_. He was John. John the blogger. John the best friend. John his…… But he couldn’t lose him. He had to try.

 

“John, I…..” he looked away and back to John. “The case… I…”

 

John launched himself at Sherlock from across the room with a feral growl, forearm across the taller man’s chest until his back hit the wall. The intoxicated man grabbed the lapels of Sherlock’s coat and pinned him back, shaking him as he roared at him

 

“I _dare_ you to deny it! And don't you dare, dare lie to me Sherlock. I swear to God, don't you fucking dare."

 

Sherlock could have broken free with some effort but he was paralysed. Staring at John’s face, so full of rage and hurt. Betrayal. Sherlock had once again chosen wrong. How could he even think that denial was a possible way out? With John, _his_ John. The soldier slammed him against the wall again, propelling his smaller frame with his entire body weight and winding him as he screamed at him to answer.

 

“Answer me you son of a bitch! Are you using again? _Are you_?” Desperately he shook the taller man, the anger swelling in his voice, “Well _are you_!?”

 

Sherlock couldn’t meet his eyes. Instead he looked down to the side, away from John. He felt a strange uncomfortable feeling gnawing at his stomach, one that he had only experienced on very few occasions. Guilt.

 

John felt a surge of anger, holding onto Sherlock’s collar with his right hand he reared back his left to punch the detective in the face. Shifting his weight onto his back foot automatically to bolster the impact he let his fist fly, pulling back only at the last second and instead feeling the sharp pain as it went through the wooden panelling beside Sherlock’s head.

 

“Oh God…..”

 

John released his grip as his legs failed beneath him. The sound was audible when his knees hit the floor as he crumpled. It was as if the anger was the only thing keeping him standing and giving him energy. Now he looked deflated, hands listlessly resting beside his legs and eyes staring blankly at Sherlock’s ankles.

 

Sherlock was at a loss. This wasn’t John, John didn’t have meltdowns then totally withdraw into himself. That behaviour was usually reserved for Sherlock. But here he was, his blogger at his feet, silent and empty. And bleeding. John didn’t even seem to notice the constant drip of blood from his left hand onto the floor. He didn’t know what to do. What could he do?

 

“John….”

 

Sherlock watched John’s back as it convulsed, the soldier was crying silent tears.

 

“John, don’t do this. Be angry, _please_. Hit me or something? Don’t do this, don’t cry.” Sherlock sank to his knees before the distraught man and placed a tentative hand on his knee.

 

“Why?” John asked, hoarsely. He let the tears roll unchecked, too exhausted to wipe them away.  “Was it me?” he added almost inaudibly. His breath hitched as he fought back a loud sob, waiting for a response. A reason.

 

“Oh John…….” Sherlock shook his head. How could he tell him?

_Yes John, you left and I cannot function without you with me. You left me with no other option._

Looking down at his broken best friend he wasn’t sure how to proceed. Another lie, or the truth? The first lie hadn’t exactly been well received but this time, it wasn’t to protect himself, it was to protect John.

 

“It started with the case.” Sherlock began his subdued explanation, a lie by omission isn’t technically a lie. Not really. And it was the only way to save John. From himself. “I had to go undercover, it was the only way to solve it. But you don’t know these places John, you can’t just wander in and nose around. There’s only one reason why anyone would go to those places, to buy... and to use.” He shifted uncomfortably as John showed no acknowledgement of Sherlock’s admission, he just kept staring at the ground. “So I did. I meant to just do it for the case, enough to look the part but not enough to get hooked again.”

 

“So what happened?” Sherlock was surprised as John spoke.

 

“Well, the case finished and….” The lie or the truth, the truth would surely destroy him as he knelt here before him, broken. The lie by omission would comfort him, for a time.

 

“And?”

 

“And I couldn’t stop.” He rushed the words so quickly they almost merged into one. “You have no idea John, it's like nothing you have ever experienced. Memories enhanced tenfold. Sensory perception altered. The wants and needs of reality don’t exist there.”

 

_You don’t exist there._

 

He looked down at John with concern and lay a hand on his back, rubbing lightly with his thumb.

 

“Oh God Sherlock!” John wept and buried himself in his friend’s embrace. Collapsing into Sherlock’s arms and sobbing uncontrollably, he felt as though he should be relieved that it wasn’t him. But he couldn’t feel anything. Nothing but the pain of betrayal. Sherlock wrapped his arms around his blogger and held him to the warmth of his body. Resting his chin on John’s head as the man wept into his coat.

 

“When will it stop Sherlock?” John made a muffled plea into the man’s chest. “It hurts. It hurts all the time. First Mary…... And now you. You. I trusted you, I’ve always trusted you. I chased criminals across rooftops for you. _I’ve killed for you_! How could you not tell me?” He sobbed again, his body trembling as he tried to hold in his grief. _“How could you do this to me?”_

 

Sherlock did not have an answer for his John. Neither lies nor truth would provide any comfort. Instead he shifted their bodies until John leant his back against the detective’s chest. Pulling him close Sherlock rocked him gently and rested his head on the smaller man’s shoulder. His lips brushing past his ear, he whispered over and over again as John wept

 

“I’m sorry. Forgive me?”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is owned by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and the BBC. We are writing this to fulfil our own perverted desires and earn nothing from this fic other than satisfaction.


	14. Chapter 14

They stayed there like that for a long time. Sherlock held his doctor until the man’s shoulders stopped shaking and he relaxed into him. Finally John surfaced from his chest and looked up at him.

 

“Promise me, never again?” His voice was hoarse from crying for so long, for so many weeks of buried hurt finally released he felt drained and empty. “Promise me, and mean it this time.”

 

Sherlock looked down at John, and sadly shook his head.

 

“I would do _anything_ for you John, but I can’t promise that.” Sherlock saw the pain form once again and John's breath faltered.

 

“Not even for me?” John asked quietly, as if hesitant to ask such a feat from the detective.

 

“I don’t make promises I cannot keep John, especially not to you.”

 

“Please? Promise me you will at least try.” John begged him, begging was not suited to Captain John Watson, veteran of Afghanistan. He had seen so many things, done terrible things in the name of Great Britain, but begging had never been on the agenda for the proud soldier. However, for Sherlock, anything.

 

The detective took a moment to consider this, he knew that if he were to make a promise to the doctor, there would be no choice but to keep it. Or risk losing John forever. If he refused, he would lose John here and now.

 

“If I promise…..” The words caught in Sherlock’s throat, he cleared it and forced them out. “If I promise, will you stay…. Here……. With me?”

 

John shifted to his feet, kneeling between Sherlock’s legs and took his chin in his right hand, his left trembling too hard to move from his chest and more than slightly bloody. Staring into the detective eyes he captured his gaze before dipping his head, placing a soft chaste kiss on Sherlock’s lips. Too surprised to react the detective froze, the kiss over as quickly as it started, he stared at John. Before he could say anything in response John spoke softly and earnestly, keeping his eyes on the detective’s.

 

“I promise, I won’t leave you Sherlock. I’m here for good, so stop acting like I’ll pack my bags and run away. I’ll keep my end of the deal, you will too.” Sherlock nodded, closing his eyes and resting his forehead against John’s as if that act could merge their minds.

 

“I swear I will try.”

 

They shared a few minutes, sitting that way until John gently moved away, a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder to bolster him to his feet. He offered the same hand to Sherlock

 

“Come on, I’ll make us some tea.” Sherlock gave a small smile and took the hand, gracefully getting to his feet and squeezing it before releasing it.

 

“You’re bleeding, you know.”

 

\---------------------------------------------------------------

 

Harriet Watson sat behind the wheel of her car, blood slowly seeping down from the single bullet hole in her forehead. Her eyes glossy and unseeing, skin pale already.

 

John cursed and slammed his hand down over the latest picture.

 

“Goddamnit. Sherlock we got another! Every bloody morning this week!  I’m gonna ring Harry and make sure she’s okay. She will be, but I have to check.” Sherlock left his armchair and peered down at the latest batch of photographs. Mary had already delivered photoshopped pictures of his parents in various methods of deaths. He was almost certain that Harriet would be alive and well but decided against voicing that opinion.

 

The atmosphere between the two of them had been somewhat tense since John punched a hole in the panelling. Mrs. Hudson had been less than impressed and threatened Sherlock with the bill but seemed more concerned than angry. John had forced Sherlock to reveal where all his drugs were located and any paraphernalia associated with his using. The drugs had been the easy collection, Sherlock was less than forthcoming about the equipment as he argued he needed them for his various experiments. It took only a few disapproving looks from John to silence his protests and the retrieval of the equipment was less painful.

 

“Harry? Yeah, just seeing what you’re up to.” The relief was obvious in his voice as he listened to her confusion. “Yeah, ok, I’ll catch up with you later.” Sherlock could hear his sister loudly asking what was going on but John hung up and placed the phone grimly on the table.

 

“Sherlock, this has to stop. We need to find Mary.” He put his head in his hands, missing the conflicted look on Sherlock’s face. Yes, he wanted the pictures to stop, so that John could stop thinking about the Liar and start thinking about him. About _them._

 

“Unfortunately she is clever.” Sherlock wrenched his thoughts away from John and onto the puzzle; how to find Mary. “Very clever. She has a very unique set of skills that have allowed her to blend in until now. Until she decides to disclose her location it will be extremely difficult to track her.”

 

“Do you think that’s a possibility though? Her just giving herself up.”

 

“Absolutely not. I never said ‘giving up’ I said ‘disclose her location’. She will choose a time to reveal herself and when she does, we will need to be wary as it will be one of her _final acts_.” John stopped mid sip of his tea and frowned at Sherlock.

 

“ _Final acts_? You aren’t thinking murderous thoughts again are you? We’ve discussed this..”

 

“No John, I’m not going to kill her in cold blood. We all know how you feel about _that_.” Sherlock replied flatly, though if the opportunity were to arise he wasn’t sure how he would respond. “What I mean is, that when she does contact us, and she will, it will be the climax of her insanity and she will have planned whatever it is for a long time. It’s going to get messy.” The detective sipped his tea and looked at John who seemed uneasy.

 

“You’d think with all the surveillance we _know_ your brother keeps on us, that he’d catch someone regularly pushing things through our front door?” John commented dryly.

 

“Indeed. I do believe Mycroft is currently overseas sorting out some kind of diplomatic emergency.” Sherlock sighed at mention of his interfering brother. He could handle this without him, he just needed to be clever, which really wasn’t a problem. Usually.

 

Withdrawals had started already, his body felt cold but he had sweated through two shirts since leaving his bed that morning. He stared at the photos in front of him, willing his brain to gather as much information from them as possible but it refused to cooperate. Instead of observations automatically annotating themselves he felt himself garner nothing. His brain being fuzzy and uncooperative coupled with the ceaseless craving for cocaine led to him being very irritable. Just the mention of his brother raised his hackles enough that he pushed his chair back from the table and scooped up his violin. Plucking harshly at the strings he tried to focus but his hands shook too much to even hold it properly. He shoved the violin back onto its stand and ran his hands through his hair. Frustrated and already feeling the fatigue set in he threw himself into his chair and hooked his legs over an arm. Closing his eyes he tried to disappear within his mind but found the gates inexplicably closed and thus trapping him in reality.

 

John watched Sherlock’s behaviour change erratically from one mood to another from over his empty tea mug. It was only going to worsen over the next few days, he had already braced himself for the oncoming storm that was withdrawals. He had seen it so many times at the surgery, whether to the illegal variety or prescribed medication. However, the detective reacted to most ordinary stimuli in the most extraordinary way that John couldn’t imagine that Sherlock would be the typical patient.

 

Returning his attention to the graphic photos he pushed them beneath the envelope and swiped them off the table onto the ground.

 

“Tea, Sherlock?” He offered as brightly as he could. Sherlock merely grunted in reply as he tried to ignore his transport’s cravings. John busied himself with the routine of making tea for the both of them. It was going to be a rough couple of weeks.

 

\--------------------------------------------------------------------

 

John sat on the couch, his feet up on the coffee table lightly snoring with his thumb still marking the page of his forgotten novel. His head rested on his chest, he had meant to snatch a few minutes reprieve from caring for Sherlock’s withdrawals and instead sank straight to sleep after rereading five lines. The miserable detective emerged from his room and walked into the living room, mouth open about to loudly complain when he saw John and fell totally silent.

 

John looked so young when he slept. The usual furrowed brow relaxed and smooth, his mouth slightly parted as he snored almost inaudibly and his usually firmly held soldier’s posture relaxed and soft. Sherlock wanted to share that peace, desperately. Disappearing momentarily back to his room he took the thick blanket and returned to John who hadn’t moved a muscle. Removing the book gently from John’s grip he was surprised the usually feather light sleeper did not stir, even when he curled up and lay his head in John’s lap the doctor’s hands merely accepted him. One cradling his head and the other rested on his chest beneath the blanket that Sherlock wrapped around them both.

 

Warm beneath the thick material Sherlock quickly found himself comfortable and pleasantly sleepy. Being in such close proximity to John his mind was thankfully quiet. He found his mind often settled when he could touch John, just being close to him wasn’t  enough.

 

That was how Mrs. Hudson found them when she came up with a tray of tea as a way to lift their spirits. She smiled fondly, her boys. _Finally._ Taking the tray with her she left as silently as she had come with that affectionate smile still adorning her face.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is owned by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and the BBC. We are writing this to fulfil our own perverted desires and earn nothing from this fic other than satisfaction.


	15. Chapter 15

He didn't know why he was even bothering. John had explicitly told Sherlock they would never play Cluedo again. Sherlock had somehow gotten the idea into his head that the only logical solution was that the victim did it. How, he had no idea. It made no sense whatsoever. He can't remember why he agreed to another game. Perhaps with a slightly inebriated persuasion Sherlock may either explain himself or give up the daft notion entirely.

 

The pieces were slightly askew on the board. Just out of place and maybe moving a little. John couldn't tell. The alcohol had clearly affected him as well. Everything had become light and he felt as if his armchair was a cloud that could gently take off at any moment. He'd forgotten what his cards were for a third time. He picked them back up and tried to form some sort of hypothesis having also forgotten Sherlock's last turn, his own previous turn and much of the turns before that.

 

"Mmm... the red.. lady.." He blinked twice and leaned over the board. "with the gun -", God, what room was he in? What colour was his piece? "In _that_ one." he slurred as he gestured to, essentially, the whole board.

 

"You suggested it was that bloody woman in the previous round. I told you it couldn't have been her. She's still alive!"

 

"So _this_ \- " John emphatically waved his glass over the board, - "is a suicide then?" He brought it back to his lips for another sip then placed it unceremoniously on the table beside them. John picked up the game box and read aloud "Work in secrecy to solve the _murder_ before your fellow teammates. _How_ is it a suicide?"

 

"Obviously they faked their own death in order to run off with money. Look at the house John! Whoever owns it has enough money to sweep their boring life under the rug. I'm working on three theories. One. Failed relationship - ". John fell back into his chair and his mind went back to Mary. He took another sip from his glass. Sherlock's voice was becoming increasingly slurred. "Two. Problems with narcotics -". John's eyes travelled up from his glass and looked at Sherlock. He was leaning back in his chair so gracefully. The top button of his shirt undone and he could see his chest rise and fall with each breath. Sherlock was staring down at the pieces on the board and seemed to be having the same problems with the pieces not staying in their correct places.

 

"And three?" He sighed. Taking another sip. Sherlock seemed to either not have heard him or just ignored him entirely. He did that. "Sherlock, what's three?".

 

Sherlock peered into the bottom of his empty glass and reached for the scotch to refill it. Tipping a rough two and a half standard drinks worth of hard liquor into the crystal glass he replaced the stopper and looked at John who was watching him expectantly.

 

“Sherlock, for the love of God what’s three?”

 

“What’s three what? You are making no sense John, honestly.”

 

John let out a strangled noise of frustration and instead sipped more of his scotch.

 

“How can you make accurate deductions about who the suspects are when you are clearly inebriated?” John leant forward with what could have been a half decent accusatory glare if he hadn’t hiccoughed midway through. Sherlock paused midway through a large mouthful of very expensive alcohol - courtesy of Mycroft.

 

The detective raised an eyebrow and placed his drink safely back on it’s coaster.

 

“Excuse me, ‘Doctor’ Watson but my blood alcohol level is no where near high enough to be compromised.”

 

“I don’t believe you, you can barely put Colonel bloody Mustard squarely in the bedroom let alone make deductions about his involvement in an alleged crime.” Both men were leaning forward, sitting on the edge of their chairs and staring at each other over the doomed Cluedo board.

 

“Prove it. Deduce something. Anything.” John waved his hands at the room as he challenged the detective. The latter leaned back in his chair and clumsily steepled his fingers beneath his chair before resting his analytical gaze upon the tipsy man before him.

 

He stared appraisingly at his challenger, eyes flicking quickly from head, to hands to feet. John was familiar with the detective’s scrutiny, but never realised the sheer intensity. He imagined he could feel the searing heat as Sherlock’s eyes analysed every minute detail of his person and found himself suddenly hot. Tugging at the collar of his jumper he narrowed his eyes at Sherlock as the detective looked marginally surprised at the deduction he had just made.

 

Sherlock took the challenge as seriously as possible when one’s judgement is inhibited.

_Leaning forward - Excited._

_Pupils dilated - arousal, could be excitement or sexual, not enough data._

_Both hands still - Relaxed, possibly alcohol related._

_Slightly swaying in his chair - Definitely alcohol related._

_Bulge in his trousers - possible erection._

 

“Doctor Watson, you are both inebriated by alcohol and…” Sherlock paused, his mouth suddenly dry as the deductions slowly processed through his intoxicated mind and fell into place to form a statement.

 

“And?” John asked, his voice low and almost gravelly.

 

“And my act of analysing you has resulted in arousal of a sexual nature.”

 

The assessment hung in the air as both men processed the meaning behind those words. John could not deny the detective’s current analysis. Having the detective’s undivided attention was usually something reserved for murder suspects, crime scenes and corpses, none of which seemed to enjoy it. It was almost as intoxicating as the fine scotch, the his eyes drank in every detail created a heat that went straight to his groin.

 

He enjoys it. Sherlock mused as they maintained eye contact, both lost in their own thoughts. _He became aroused because I was analysing him._ Aroused. Such an unusual response; sexual excitement. _How intriguing._

 

Time seemed to catch up with the both of them and John took another sip of his scotch before clearing his throat.

 

“Satisfied my deducing skills are still intact, Doctor?”

 

The detective grinned smugly and waved his hand over the board as if he had revealed some big secret. John scoffed and took another mouthful, wincing as the alcohol left a trail of burning down into his chest.

 

“Hardly. Total fluke. Any schmuck with eyes and half a brain could’ve deduced that I’m intoxicated.” He made no mention of the second half of the analysis, instead letting it remain unsaid for the time being.

 

“If you think it's so easy, you try it.” Sherlock returned, leaning comfortably back into his chair in a way that made the top of his shirt gape slightly to reveal the skin that looked shockingly pale against the purple shirt. John struggled to retain any semblance of rational thought until Sherlock cleared his throat and raised his eyebrows.

 

“Alright, I bloody well will!” Never one to back down from a direct challenge he nodded defiantly and tried to focus on the man before him. Unlike Sherlock, he voiced his ‘deductions’ out loud. Much like when they were at crime scenes and Sherlock encouraged him to ‘use his brain’ then mocked or praised accordingly.

 

“Well, you’re sitting kind of lopsided” John turned his head as if to try and view Sherlock straight, “so the alcohol is affecting your gross motor skills at the very least. Then there’s your hair, all tousled and dark that makes your eyes all pretty.”

Sherlock coughed to hide his grin as he interrupted

“John you can’t say that in a deduction, that’s personal opinion, not fact!”

John held a finger to his mouth unsteadily

“Shhh! I didn’t interrupt when you were deducing, so shut it! I’m trying to concentrate.” Sherlock sat back in his chair, unable to hide his smile this time and waved at John to continue.

“You’re wearing that shirt that makes your skin look delicious and your pupils are…” The doctor leaned forward over the board, his hands on Sherlock’s cheeks, holding their faces apart by mere inches. “Totally blown. Indicates excitement or arousal.” As he moved further forwards his alcohol affected brain lost balance. Instinctively, he put his hands out to steady himself and grabbed Sherlock’s knees. John’s gaze fell to the seam of Sherlock’s expensive trousers and the slight distention that lay there.

“Plus, you have an erection. Probably. So it’s definitely sexual arousal.”

John looked up to meet Sherlock’s eyes, not moving back nor advancing but maintaining the couple of inches of space left between them. He could smell the sweet scotch on the detective’s breath and felt the warmth of it brush past his cheek.

“So, how’d I do Mr. World’s Only Consulting Detective? You out of a job yet?”

Sherlock licked his dry lips and shrugged as non-committedly as he could.

“Accurate, albeit very opinionated and …” the rest of his appraisal was muffled into John’s mouth as the smaller man claimed it. John tasted sweet from the alcohol – thank you Mycroft for doing something _good_ for once – and his mouth was soft like velvet. So welcoming. John felt Sherlock push for dominance and yielded almost instinctively, letting him explore his mouth and sighing contentedly. The detective pulled John towards him. The forgotten game between them slipped off the table onto the floor, cards and pieces scattering across the room. John steadied his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders as he moved into his lap and straddled the thin legs until their bodies pressed together. He clutched the detective’s head in his hands, carding his fingers through his hair and moaned as Sherlock wrapped his arms around his back holding him closely.

Sherlock’s mind, instead of its usual noisy classification of all available data was strangely quiet. Instead he found himself cataloguing only one thing – how the man in his lap writhed when he nipped at his lower lip. When Sherlock tilted his head the man shifted against him, moving seamlessly and matching Sherlock’s movements. When he reached up and tangled his fingers in his hair, tugging lightly John outright moaned and clutched at him tighter. It felt like this moment was separate from the fabric of reality. A moment suspended in time.

John listened to the quiet huffs of Sherlock’s breath as he pressed down onto the now obvious erection, eliciting a muffled “Oh God” into the doctor’s mouth. Sherlock dropped his hands to John’s hips, his slender fingers reaching to where his shirt was tucked into his pants at the small of his back. In small tugs he freed the tiniest gap and gingerly graced the fingertips of one hand across the exposed skin.

Shivers fell from the top of his spine and straight to his cock as John felt the soft pads of the detective’s fingers brush so delicately in such a sensitive area. He dropped his head almost involuntarily, nuzzling into Sherlock’s neck and painting concentric circles with his tongue just above the man’s collarbone. Sherlock tugged another few precious inches of shirt away and slipped both hands into the gap, letting his fingers explore the fine, downy hair and soaking in the warmth that emanated from his doctor.

John felt dizzy and light. The alcohol, the heat from Sherlock’s body and the insistently gentle fingers went straight to his head making everything have comfortably fuzzy edges. He moaned, pressing down against Sherlock in small circles to match the patterns of the fingers that caressed his back so tenderly. Bringing a hand down from the dark curls he slipped his fingers in between the smooth buttons of the shirt and pressed them against the detective’s chest. The heart that lay beneath his fingers beat hard and fast. He traced his fingers as far as the buttons would allow to feel the sparse hair beneath the warm shirt. Sherlock was making small, unbidden noises in John’s ear as the smaller man started to grind down more insistently.

“Nnghhh….. yes….. oh please…….” Sherlock couldn’t help the sounds that fell unrestrained from his lips.

Finally. _Finally_ John was here, entwined until he wasn’t sure where his body ended and his blogger’s began. He smelt like unbrewed tea and soap and the oil he used to clean his gun most evenings. It was heady and intoxicating. It was a scent that was imprinted on his soul as comfort and safety. Soft, supple skin of a veteran who had let his fitness regimen relax since returning home. Sherlock liked it, it made John more inviting to touch. As his fingers ghosted across the skin he could feel the hairs almost stand up on end and the tremor that went through John’s body.

John nipped ever so lightly at his collarbone, surprised and unbelievably aroused Sherlock snatched his hands from beneath the man’s shirt. Sliding them down to cup his arse instead, pulling John down closer, harder.

“More…. please…...John…” He had never begged for anything in his life. But he had never wanted anything more, never _needed_ anything or anyone as much as he did in that moment. John kissed down from his collarbone, past the opening of his shirt to above the first button. His fine motor skills somewhat compromised from his inebriation he fumbled with it. As it opened he kissed down to the flushed skin, taking his time as Sherlock used his hips as leverage to gain more friction.

“Nnngh…. John….” It was almost embarrassing how he had no control over his voice but as John kissed down two more buttons and was pausing cruelly on the last three he could barely concern himself at all. Sherlock couldn’t help but feel that if John continued this tease for much longer he might come in his trousers with no contact at all.  

As he mused over that imminent result a shrill ring from the floor and an insistent buzzing shook them both from their shared intimacy.

“Jus’ leave it….. stay.” John slurred into the detective’s chest, kissing across to take a hardened nipple between his teeth and pressing his open hand against him. Sherlock clutched at John’s hips, grinding up against him with no intention of paying any attention to the phone. The only person he cared about was currently in this room, in his lap, anyone else at this moment was simply not important enough. He didn’t even register when the caller gave up and the phone went silent. Leaning his head back against the armchair he pressed into John’s painful ministrations, enjoying the sweet mix of pleasure and the bite of pain. As they sank back into a rhythm the mainline rang from the kitchen and went to voicemail broadcasting their caller’s voice into the living room.

“I know at least one of you is bloody well there, I can see the light from out here.”

It was Lestrade. John groaned into Sherlock and glared at the offending communications device. As if on cue the message continued.

“I have a medical emergency that I, ah, can’t deal with through the usual channels. I need John, if he’s there. Now. Hurry, there’s a car here to take us there, lights and sirens.”

“Right..” John stepped back hesitantly, trying to find his feet as he stood. He tried to gather himself but a dangerous mixture of alcohol and Sherlock was hindering him. Oh god. His mind was racing as he hurried to pick up the wireless phone and hold it between his shoulder and his ear. He made a rather elaborate effort at finding his coat as if trying to distract himself which was ridiculous as he couldn’t gather a coherent thought to distract himself from to begin with. He could hear Lestrade’s voice on the end but he couldn’t make heads or tails of what the words actually meant but it sounded important.

 

John constantly checked Sherlock out of his peripheral to see him casually sat back in his chair, fingers pressed together and to his lips, as usual. If it wasn’t for his dishevelled clothing and hair you’d think he was just focused on some other case but considering what had occurred not one moment earlier, this calm look terrified John. He parted his lips gently to offer something to Sherlock. That he didn’t want tonight to end. Not this way.  But before the words could come out Lestrade shouted something else in a hurried, impatient manner.

 

“Yes, yes, I’m coming.”  And with that, he hung up, dropped the phone to the table by the door and closed the door behind him.

 

The silence was deafening...

 

_Of course he left…_

 

Sherlock didn’t move. He could feel his breath. He could feel the blood pumping through his veins but he sat paralysed. Even he was unsure how long he was sat there for. So much information. John’s touch. His smell. His hands. His tongue. Everything Sherlock had wanted. Had needed. Given to him so briefly and then ripped from him. With each inhale he could feel his chest physically ache.

 

 _No. Not again._ He rose to his feet with the intention of storming to the other side of the flat, only to have stopped after a few steps. _Please.. not from John._

 

He dropped his head to the floor, as if to abuse his uncooperative feet for being useless and it hit him. It crept up like a dull ache and clutched at his groin till he dropped to the ground. _What? What is this?_ He pressed his eyes tight together and tried to make sense of it as the painful pressure washed over and clung to him like fire. He forced out a cry of pain, hoping it’d dull the sensation but it refused to leave him. He was suddenly very aware of how weak and incompetent his ‘transport’ was.

 

It needed to stop. He needed to stop the pain, both in his chest and below.

 

_He left you. Just like before. Why do you keep letting him in? He’s only going to leave._

 

He pushed himself to his feet. Willing the pain to stop and his transport to move on. Move past this. He strained each step towards the kitchen before crashing his palms to the table. _Breathe. Dont think about it. Dont think about John. Dont think about how he left like everyone else._ He rummaged through his seemingly innocent chemistry equipment, gathering the necessary supplies in order in front of him.

 

He’d need it to be clean. He’d cleaned it before, but only with cotton. A quick fix to make sure nothing too dangerous would compromise his mind and, less importantly, his body. But this time he needed to escape completely. A cleaner dose meant he could lose himself deeper into it. It would take longer to prepare, but he would be thankful on the other end of this. _A small wait to escape this feeling._ He cringed at the word. _Emotion. Tiresome_

 

Fumbling through his 'chemistry' supplies, he carefully weighed the substance on a microscale and transferred it to one of the many glass test tubes aligned before him. His features remained in a calm and stoic expression, as if it were any other chemical exercise he would perform on a day to day basis. He reached across to the far side of the countertop and grabbed one of many ready disposable pipettes and delicately measured two drops of hydrochloric acid into the tube, allowing them to sit and react for a few minutes..

 

Sherlock stared into the solution. He watched the acid dance through the drug and seemed to lose himself into the magic of it all. _It’s just a trick. A magic trick._ He closed his eyes and swallowed hard. He turned and retrieved a small pre packaged bottle of distilled water and, with deceptively delicate hands, poured a small 5mls into the ever-enticing elixir. Sherlock lowered a glass rod into the tube and stirred till it was mostly dissolved.

 

Everything that didn’t dissolve was waste. Filth. The matter that Sherlock shouldn’t be implanting himself with. As he removed the rod from the tube and placed it back on the table he watched as the debris slowly sank to the bottom.  If only all contaminations were so easily removed.

 

He retrieved another sterile pipette and slowly drew the clear solution into the bulb. That still left the soluble impurities. The devious, cowardly poison that could sink in and you would never knew was there. Never quite understand how deep it had sunk to compromise the original compound. This would be, understandably, more difficult to extract. He gently expelled the liquid onto a glass beaker and discarded with the pipette before grabbing another sterile one and filling it with ammonium hydroxide. He added it slowly. One drop at a time. Watching the intermittent white precipitate form. He continued to add the drops until it no longer continued to appear, then mixed it gently until the telltale milky pattern was swirling through it.

 

Sherlock let out a small sigh. The next part in this required a delicate hand. As cumbersome as John had been at the moment, Sherlock had seemed semi-capable of keeping his transport from being too affected. His mind was racing and somewhat unsettled but at least his hands were steady. For that he was thankful.

 

He very carefully poured , the quite combustible, 100mls of Diethyl ether into the beaker and stirred vigorously until the water had separated to the bottom. He removed that nonchalantly and discarded it.

 

Next he added a small, new mixture of hydrochloric acid and distilled water and stirred vigorously again. If anything, this was it. The only thing one can truly count on is science. Chemistry. When mixing this to that, a certain reaction is certain. One can be added to another a thousand times and it will always react the same. _No surprises. No variables. No lies._

 

After several minutes of stirring he allowed the new layer of water to form at the bottom of the solution. He removed it with a new pipette and set it out onto a petri dish. He slowly added the sodium bicarbonate powder to the water and allowed it to bubble. When it had finally stopped it was finished. For the most part. Sherlock took a small moment of relief. He had only purified his product a few times before. The result had been a truly different experience which he never had the patience to duplicate. But this time was different. He needed different. With this process, he had removed all the impurities. The solid particulate matter and the soluble pollutants. He needn’t worry with trash anymore. He didn't need it.

 

Sherlock moved the pure powder into a fresh beaker that was carefully set above a small bunsen burner. He gathered a an equal amount of water and combined it with the substance. From his previous experience, he knew exactly how much water to add to ensure it wouldn’t affect the hit.

 

He turned the burner on to low heat and gently stirred. It could barely even be called stirring. Sherlock delicately pushed the liquid around the beaker till small bubbles formed on the bottom of the beaker. Should he allow it to boil at all, it would have all been for nothing. He drew it up into a syringe, hidden carefully under a number of other chemistry equipment, holding it against the light and admiring the beauty of it. Sherlock had always excelled at chemistry.

 

He stared at it a fraction too long and remembered what it was he had actually made.  The pain seemed to return all at once. The tightening in his chest, the pressure in his groin and now, what was threatening to be sobriety causing his head to ache insufferably. He grit his teeth and stormed from the kitchen. He fetched his tourniquet from its new hiding place, inside the skull on the mantelpiece, and returned to his armchair. As soon as he leant back into it, his mind betrayed him and replayed that moment in his head over and over. He could feel John’s warmth at his fingertips, feel his breath on his neck and his erection grinding into his.

 

_Oh god.. Oh please.. John_

 

Sherlock waved his hand away, as if the memory was some irritating insect, insistent on harassing him. He rested the syringe on the armrest and undid the buttons that were still in place on his deep purple shirt. _John's favourite.. No wonder he.._

 

He flung the shirt as far across the room as he could manage and fastened the tourniquet over his arm. He slowed his breath as his veins began to rise. Sherlock felt his heartbeat in his ears and the world around him seemed to slow. _Why are you doing this? You don’t even need it! You have John now!_

 

He closed his eyes. _No. He left. He took the first opportunity to leave. Perish the thought that John overcome his unrelenting mission to appear ‘not gay’ and surrender to the ludicrous thought that he may get what he actually wants._

_Like he would want you._

 

He opened his eyes and the needle was in his arm. He hadn’t remembered it breaking the flesh. As if it was someone else's, he watched as the hand drove the intoxicating purity into his arm. Into his core.

 

It was all so clear now. He remembered it exactly as it had happened. Only as if it had without the insufferable Graham interrupting. He wished this was what had happened but he was too clever. Even with something this pure inside of him, he couldn’t give into the illusion. It had been for nothing regardless. He fell further into the chair and his eyes fell vacant. He felt a tear run down his cheek.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is owned by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and the BBC. We are writing this to fulfil our own perverted desires and earn nothing from this fic other than satisfaction.


	16. Chapter 16

“Is this really important, I mean, seriously? Don’t you have your own medics?” John asked as he slipped into the car beside the detective inspector.

 

“I wouldn’t have asked you if I had someone else, why, you busy?” John looked out the window to hide his smirk

 

“What have we got Greg?”

 

“Our informant got himself found out and stabbed.”

 

“And the catch?”

 

“He has too many warrants out on him. I need him in one piece.” John nodded and blinked.

 

“I should warn you, I’ve been drinking.” John admitted with a slight slur. Lestrade laughed and nodded

 

“Yes I know, I can smell it from here. But can you do it?”

 

“Of course.” John nodded, fairly confident in his own skills.

 

\---------------------------------------------------------

 

John cleaned his hands in the sink and rolled his jumper sleeves back down. It had been messy, but the patient was unconscious before he had even arrived. A fairly standard procedure, simply stitching him up and disinfecting the wound. Barely took any concentrating at all. Which left his mind to wander back to Sherlock and the game of Cluedo. And the kiss.

 

He couldn’t even pinpoint the moment when he realised he felt something more for his flatmate than was standard issue for sharing the rent. He remembered to their first dinner at Angelo’s and the small candle the well-intentioned man had placed on their table. When Sherlock had said girls were not his area he had automatically assumed Sherlock was gay, but the detective seemed to have made it clear he was not interested in dating at all. Man or woman. Yet, he had caught Sherlock’s gazes across a corpse when John made a surprising deduction. The brightness in his eyes when he pointed out something the police officers had not or better still; Anderson had not.

 

He had thought Sherlock incapable of a relationship. A self professed sociopath, he wasn’t even sure if Sherlock was capable of love in the same unconditional way normal people were. But if he were, John was sure that Sherlock felt that way about himself. The way Sherlock had kissed him, the noises he made were positively sinful, begging for more…. As he sat in the back of the police car that was delivering him back to the flat he ventured into the idea that perhaps he and Sherlock had been an item for a lot longer than John realised.

 

He pulled up to the flat hours after he had left, his neck sore and his head already starting to show signs of the infamous Watson hangover. Thanking the Constable he unlocked the flat and trudged up the stairs. Looking into the lounge he looked at the Cluedo board and its pieces still on the floor. Naturally, as if the Great Sherlock Holmes would do something as ordinary as clean up after himself. Although, John had left him in quite a situation. He wondered when the last time Sherlock had been with another person was and instantly decided against it. Remembering the look on Sherlock’s face when they had solved a case for an old “university buddy” and the comments he had made. Sherlock usually didn’t react to the comments or insults of others, but with this man for some reason, the remarks though not intentionally hurtful, reflected briefly in his face.

 

“Sherlock?” He spotted the detective’s arm dangling from the chair and smiled fondly. For once he was sleeping, that was a good thing, John had rarely seen the detective sleep. Moving round he placed a hand Sherlock’s and rubbed it before spying something shiny on the ground. Frowning he bent to get a closer look and growled, standing up and kicking Sherlock’s chair he yelled at the comatose man.

 

“You bloody idiot! After everything and……. God I’m stupid. So stupid. Of course you couldn’t be clean if I’m not here to watch you like a hawk every bloody second! Who else would put up with heads in the fridge and decomposing bloody badgers! Sherlock when you wake up I’m giving you the ass kicking of a lifetime, do you hear?!” As his anger abated some, he took Sherlock’s wrist in his hand, feeling for his pulse. Thready, but present. “Good thing you aren’t dead, wouldn’t be a fair fight.”

 

“John?” Sherlock mumbled, looking up at him.

 

“Oh, so you’re awake then? What the _hell_ do you call this? I leave and you shoot up. I thought we chucked it all out? Yay for sobriety, remember any of that? No?” John walked away disgusted to the kitchen and turned the kettle on. Sherlock blinked and looked down at the syringe on the floor. Following John to the kitchen he tried half heartedly to explain himself

 

“Not good?” He placed a tentative hand on John’s shoulder but he brushed it off, glaring at him.

 

“Don’t even start that with me now, Sherlock. I’ve bloody had it up to _here_ with your bullshit!” John waved above his head as he slammed his favourite mug onto the counter, accidentally shattering it. “Oh bloody brilliant.” He put his cut finger to his mouth in an attempt to stem the bleeding and got down on his knees to pick up the shards.

 

“I left for five bloody minutes and you go and shoot up.”

 

“Four.” Sherlock interrupted quietly. John paused and turned to look at him

 

“Sorry, what?”

 

“Four hours. You were gone for four hours.” John shook his head in disbelief.

 

“Does it matter how long I was gone for? After all the work we’ve done and you blow it in _four hours_. Do I even _matter_ to you at all?” Sherlock looked at John puzzled, of course he did, he cared for no one in this world but John. However, once again he had disappointed him. A moment of weakness that had culminated from a lifetime of rejection. He thought perhaps he had found the one man willing to put up with all the forthcomings that living with a genius brought. John was all he thought about, often to the detriment of his deductive skills when they were out at crime scenes and John was just being brilliant and overshadowing the detectives. And their kiss… their interrupted moment, it wasn’t fair.

 

“Well do I?” John demanded, shaking Sherlock from his mind.

 

“You are everything to me, John.” Unable to make eye contact with John he looked at the remains of John’s favourite mug on the floor.

 

“Then why? Make me understand Sherlock, ‘cos right now I don’t get it. I just dont. I want you to let me in, but you can’t be you when you use, you know that. You made a promise to me!”

 

“I promised I would try.” Sherlock reminded him, but this was apparently not the right thing to say.

 

“You didn’t try though! The first chance you got, you caved!” John pointed out, sighing and rubbing his temples.

 

“John it wasn’t like that. After we consumed all that alcohol, and you…. we….. and then you left. Without any warning, just left me here and didn’t return for hours! What else was I _supposed_ to do dammit?” Sherlock wrung his hands and raised his voice slightly, still angry at John’s departure at such a crucial moment.

 

“Let me get this straight,” John stared at him indignantly, “You injected cocaine, an illegal substance, into your veins because of a small case of Blue balls?!” Sherlock looked away and shrugged.

“There is an easier, less expensive, _legal_ way to solve that.” John waved his left hand at the detective in a less than polite gesture. “Just like that. Solved and finished!” Sherlock looked mortified, the blush creeping from his cheeks down to his neck.

 

“Bloody hell Sherlock." John inhaled deeply, and exhaled with an attempt to release his anger out with it. "I can't help you with this unless you work _with me_.”

 

"John.. I -"

 

"Mycroft will take you away!" John shouted. Sherlock's head snapped up and met John's eyes. They were clearly fighting back tears. He had hoped he could keep Mycroft's involvement out of this. It would only hurt Sherlock but John hated the thought of Mycroft and his men whisking in, plucking Sherlock from his arms and hauling him to god knows where, to do god knows what to Sherlock. "He'll take you away -" his voice broke "- from _me_ ".

 

Oh god. How could he have done this again. To John. _His_ John. When had it gotten so bad that Mycroft had interfered. _Oh of course. How else would John have known what to look for in the first place. His petulant, venomous, interfering kin_. As much as he hated his older brother for putting him in this predicament, wasn't it himself that had begun it all, effectively forcing Mycroft's hand? This was no one's fault but his own.

 

Sherlock opened his mouth but nothing came out. What was he trying to say? _'I'm sorry'?_ He knew perfectly well apologies werent enough anymore. Apologies couldn't take back the betrayal he had inflicted upon John. Not this time. _'Please don't let them take me'?_ Maybe it was for the best. If he was far from John, at least he couldn't hurt him anymore. He could return to him when he was well. If he would even want him back. He closed it again and swallowed hard. Perhaps the words were stuck in his throat.

 

After an agonising silence, both men staring so far into each other they could each feel the burn through their skin, Sherlock finally broke. He parted his lips and gently exhaled.

 

"Let him."

 

John cocked his head. Had he heard him right? Sherlock knew perfectly well what his brother was capable of. He wanted to be sent to some institution? With addicts that couldn't hold a candle to the glowing sun that was Sherlock. His mind alone would go mad. Wait, no, of course not. Mycroft wouldn't do that to Sherlock. He'd be placed somewhere in isolation being monitored around the clock. Maybe that was worse.

 

Perhaps he was being a _little_ selfish. He needed the detective with him as much as the detective needed John. No. He couldn't allow it. _Would not_ allow it. Mycroft was the most heartless and clinical excuse for a person he'd ever had the misfortune of meeting. Even if Sherlock _was_ his brother he would still only get him through this addiction with whatever efficient means necessary with little or no regard as to Sherlock’s well being. His detective needed more than that. He needed compassion. He needed someone to be there for him in any way, in _every_ way. He needed love.

 

John's left hand was clenched into a fist so hard that he could feel the pain from the hole in the wall all over again. He was sure his fingernails were digging into his palms hard enough to draw blood but he didn't seem able to relax it.

 

"No." His voice trembled. The anger that Sherlock had relapsed had passed. He felt a deeper pain and rage present itself. Anger that Sherlock wanted to shut him out entirely. Not only that Sherlock wouldn't let him in, but the fact that he'd rather turn to that cock of a brother to fix this. "No. I wont let you. I won’t let him stroll in here like he always bloody does, acting like he owns the bloody place. Like he owns _you_. He doesn't, Sherlock." He fought to keep his temper down. His pain wouldn't help here. Sherlock needed reason.

 

Sherlock proceeded as carefully as he dared. He had given the wrong words far too many times and he needed John to understand without infuriating him further.

 

"John. Please. Mycroft will take care of me. He's insufferable and his methods are - " _dont scare him into not agreeing_ " - unorthodox, but they work." He timidly admitted "They have before."

 

"I'm sorry Sherlock, but clearly, they didn't. You don't need a hospital standard fix to this. You need to work through it. Not around it. I've seen it! A clinical environment will only suppress it. I've seen it far too many times to know it doesn't work." John took Sherlock’s face in his hands and gently stroked his cheek with his thumb. "You can do this Sherlock. I know you can. You need to find something that combats the urge. Something to replace that high. So much so you don't _need_ it as opposed to not _wanting_ it." He closed his eyes and brought their foreheads together and breathed him in. "They're so, so different."

 

Sherlock knew what he needed. It was the fact that he couldn't have it is what kept him going back. How could he possibly tell John any of this? His dear, sweet blogger that that had endured so much already. Whom he had left for two years without a word. Made to believe he was dead. His pain when he had returned to him. Of course Sherlock thought he would have been relieved and welcome him with open arms but that only showed what little Sherlock really knew of emotions and the suffering he had caused him. Add that to that vile woman and what she had put him through, then Sherlock having the audacity to ask his forgiveness after hurting him yet again with his addiction. How could he possibly ask him for anything more. It was a wonder John was still here. Any weaker man would have given up on him and left.

 

And they had.

 

Sherlock pulled back away from his doctor and rested his hands on the benchtop behind him. Averting his gaze, he gathered everything he could muster. Every insecurity. Every doubt. Every haunting thought that John may leave him. John had asked him time and time again for honesty. If he was going to ask so much from him, he would need to finally let him in.

 

"John. It's you." A half smile crept from his lips as he thought to how long he had needed to say this. "It's _always_ been you"

 

John knew those words. His wedding. Sherlock's speech. He had just been ranting, surely? Killing time before he could deduce the situation and protect the guests. Protect Major Scholto. He had thought about those words for weeks after, trying himself to deduce if there was any hidden meaning. Of course there was. That’s why he left early. John stood there trying to contemplate everything the detective was saying, jaw dropped and looking like a fool for not having realised earlier.

 

"I need you like I've never needed anything before. Each time I thought I've needed someone in the past, I'd realise only too late that they would only ever need something of me - " He closed his eyes, the memories burning as they passed his lips, "- of my intellect before moving on. More often than not they'd simply want answers for some university assignment or insight into gossip. Who was sleeping with whom. I'd allow them to come close. Too close. Fascinated by their fascination in me. But they all lied. They all left then would return to their colleagues and .. laugh. They mocked my intellect and my deductions. Called me a fake and a freak."

 

John physically felt his heart rip into two. How could anyone treat anyone this way, let alone Sherlock. He had heard Mycroft say light heartedly that 'meeting other children had been a mistake'. He never knew. _Oh god, he never knew._ The sheer loneliness.

 

"And then there was you." Sherlocks eyes glittered. "I deduced your entire life within five minutes of meeting you and you didn't recoil. You didn't snare. You praised me, John. You made me believe that perhaps my 'gift' wasn't an affliction. Every time you uttered 'fantastic' or 'incredible' you were proving them all wrong. You didn't hate me for it. You stayed, John. You stayed"

 

He didn't know what to say. What could anyone say to that. A lifetime of being segregated and put down for everything that he was. He could picture it agonisingly well. A small Sherlock trying to explain to his schoolmates why a football travelled the way that it did. Adolescent Sherlock just wanting someone to talk to but pushing them away involuntarily. Not knowing when a girl was flirting with him because he was too interested in his studies. And college Sherlock. John's heart caught in his throat and suffocated him. How could he not have known. School children can be mean but college students; they could be cruel.

 

Sherlock watched John intently. Looking for the signs he had seen too many times before. Waiting for him to run. He stepped forward almost involuntarily, as if to block his path but John stopped him. He launched from the counter in front of him and wrapped his arms around the detective's neck. Sherlock was paralysed. All his senses were drowning in his doctor. He felt the cotton of his jumper caress the back of his neck. He could smell the intoxicating scent of him that made him feel safe. He slowly drew his arms from beside him and tentatively placed them on John's back.

 

"Sherlock. I'll never leave you"

 

He pressed at his back and drew him in tighter.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is owned by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and the BBC. We are writing this to fulfil our own perverted desires and earn nothing from this fic other than satisfaction.


	17. Chapter 17

_John woke to find himself in the desert. The heat from the sun bore down on him without mercy as the wind whipped up the sand into his eyes. Squinting he dropped to his knees, trying to shield his face from the swirls of sand. Beneath his feet he saw the impossible, a wood panel!  Quickly he wiped away the sand with his hands, slinging his rifle along his back he dug down until he revealed the trapdoor. Looking around quickly and finding himself alone, he decided it would be the best course of action to retreat out of this sandstorm before he was buried in it._

_Pulling the door up he threw his rifle down first, listening for when it struck the ground in the darkness below. Hearing it clatter he took a deep breath, dropping first his pack and then himself through the portal into the dark._

_The room was familiar but he couldn’t place it. A long, dark corridor with one lit window at the end. Shouldering his pack and arming his gun he advanced forward, whirling around to check behind him at the slightest noise. Finally he reached the window and looked inside. He wished he hadn’t._

_It was the inside of an an army helicopter. On the stretcher lay Private Lucas James Cawe, bleeding out with another John sitting and watching him. John shook his head and backed away, that’s not how it happened! I tried everything! The John that he saw through the window looked up at him and smiled, it got to it’s feet and started coming towards him before the light flickered off. John bolted away, running further down the corridor, away from the John that was not him._

_His mother was screaming at him through the glass, pounding her hands noiselessly on the unyielding pane as his father sat in his armchair. Blood seeping from multiple lacerations on his arms, a razor blade on the floor beneath his right hand._

_“Dad!” John took the butt of his rifle and tried to smash the glass but the second the weapon made contact with the glass the light within disappeared leaving him in darkness once again._

  
_“No! Dad! Mum!” He yelled at where the window had been but only brick remained. Another light flickered on down the hall, wiping back his tears he jogged to the next window, pressing his hands against it as he tried to make out what was inside._

_Sherlock. On the ground, tourniquet loosely wrapped around his bicep and needle still in his arm. He was surrounded by his own vomit, pale with bloodshot, glassy eyes._

_“No! Sherlock!” John screamed at the glass, taking his rifle and shooting at it. He dashed away the tears of rage and guilt and mourning and emptied his clip into the glass. Dropping his weapon he ran down the corridor away from that window, but as he ran each window lit up showing the same scene. A man in a dark suit holding a smoking gun opposite a shocked looking Sherlock, with blood trickling down between his eyes. The next, he only saw the feet first, slowly rotating around as his body hung from a rope tied to the rafters. “Stop it! Oh God please!”_

 

Sherlock had heard John’s screaming even in his sleep and woke up, immediately sitting up and listening intently to the room below him.

 

“Sherlock, no!!” Another nightmare then. Rushing down the stairs he didn’t even pause to grab his nightgown, instead running down in just his pajama bottoms. Flinging open the door he found John thrashing in his sheet, sweat beaded on his forehead as he shouted out in anguish. “Oh God please no!”

 

Sherlock shook the man firmly, calling his name until John suddenly opened his eyes.

 

“Sherlock! I thought….” He rambled quickly, clutching to the detective with trembling hands.

 

“Shh, I know.” Without another word Sherlock peeled back the sheet and climbed in behind the shaking man. “But I’m not. I’m right here.” He put his arm beneath John’s head and used his other arm to wrap around the man’s waist, placing his hand over his heart. “Right here.”

 

John rested back into Sherlock’s arms, his heart rate still racing he gulped down hard, ragged breaths as he resisted the urge to cry. So vivid, like he was there. But aren’t they always? Between his recurring nightmares of his service and the doctored photos that Mary kept sending them he was lost. Sherlock nuzzled into his neck, grazing his hot flesh with his cool lips. John entwined his fingers with the detective’s, bringing the knuckles to his lips and kissing them before pressing them to his mouth and keeping him there. He felt Sherlock’s bare chest against his back, solid and reassuring.

 

“Stay.” He mumbled, “Stay here tonight, please?” John asked quietly, unwilling to let the man leave the single bed they were crammed into.

 

“I have a better idea.” Came the soft reply. Sherlock got up and took John’s hand, leading him upstairs to his own double bed. Pulling back the sheet he motioned for John to enter before following him. John didn’t even hesitate, snuggling back into Sherlock’s embrace, the comfort and warmth was soothing. Already he felt his breath even out, his left hand still and calm in Sherlock’s own.

 

“Goodnight, John.” Sherlock mumbled into his neck,

 

“Goodnight Sherlock.” John replied, closing his eyes and already dropping off.

 

\------------------------------------------------------------------

  
  


It had been almost a fortnight since Sherlock's relapse. Luckily the withdrawals hadn’t attacked him as aggressively as when he had first tried to quit. Perhaps it was because of the way he cleaned it,  it was leaving as smoothly as it had entered. No toxins or poisons to wear his body down.

 

Sherlock eyed John Watson from the kitchen, his blogger had been sitting on the couch reading a predictably transparent murder mystery novel for the better part of an hour. The detective pretended to be doing an experiment whenever John looked up but he had already garnered what little information he could from it. Instead, he observed John in his natural habitat; on the sofa, in a jumper, reading.

 

His eyes scanned the pages lazily, putting his finger in his mouth to wet it he turned the page and replaced the finger, idly chewing on the tip. Sherlock was fascinated, watching only that interaction between lips and finger and felt a shiver of arousal down his back. He wondered what it would be like, recalling their last encounter with as much detail as he could. The soft, yielding flesh, wet and inviting.

 

Walking over as unobtrusively as possible he made it around the coffee table before John spoke, without looking up from his book.

 

“What are you up to, Sherlock? I can see you skulking about.” John gave him a pointed look over the cover before returning back to the text but even Sherlock could see he was no longer reading it properly.

 

“Using your observation skills at long last, John? You must have a good teacher.” Sherlock engaged his blogger in the banter, it was one of his favourite John activities.

 

“Oh yes, he’s very good.” John rested the book in his lap, unable to contain his grin. “But he’s a bit of an arrogant sod really, needs to be taken down a peg or two.”

 

“Is that so?” Sherlock growled. “And you would be the man to do it?”

 

“You’re the great detective, not me. You figure it out.” John licked his teeth beneath his smile and shrugged.

 

“Well, I’ll have to examine the evidence before I can make my primary deductions. If you would Dr. Watson.”  Sherlock sat down on the other end of the couch and patted his lap. His curiosity begging to be sated. “Step into my office.”

 

John dropped his book and clambered awkwardly over to stand between Sherlock’s knees. He could hear his heart pounding his his ears. Foreplay with a genius detective turned out to be just as extraordinary as everything else that made the man so intriguing. Is that was this was? Foreplay?

 

“Deduce away, detective.” John gestured to himself and stood with his arms crossed, staring down at the man who had leant back into the couch. The urge to just pounce on him was sitting just below the surface of John's self control. Did he realise how suggestive he looked? Legs open, top two buttons undone, unruly curls bouncing around his head and those eyes. Those eyes that even now were taking in each and every single detail of his clothing, his skin, his subconscious body language and even his conscious movements. Every feature catalogued and processed, this man was using his colossal intellect to study John Watson.

 

And it was incredibly sensual.

 

Sherlock watched John’s pupils dilate and his breathing shallow minutely. John wanted him, even as he stood straight, weight evenly spread across his feet he learnt towards him. The detective placed his hands on John’s shoulders and pressed down firmly. Responding to the pressure John slowly got down to his knees until he was just a few inches shorter than his seated companion.

 

“I have to run a few tests, if you’d be so kind.” Sherlock held John’s chin lightly in his hand, as though afraid he might break. He was so close John could feel his breath as he nodded

 

“Of course.. whatever you need…. just take it…..” Sherlock closed the gap between them and placed his lips over Johns. Tilting his head up John melted into the kiss, tender and soft. He responded instantly when Sherlock dipped the tip of his tongue to caress his, letting his lover explore to his heart’s content. Feeling a tug on his jumper John peeled it off, only breaking the kiss as Sherlock lifted it over his head and draped it on the couch.

 

“How’s the investigation going, detective?” John asked with a wry smile, his voice slightly gravelly. Sherlock  began undoing the buttons in John’s shirt, He tried to look as professional as he usually would in an attempt to hide any nerves from showing visibly.

 

“Well, my witness is currently cooperating, so I’ll keep you informed.”

 

“Mmmhmm, do that.” John murmured as the detective slipped off his shirt and lay it on top of his jumper. Sherlock traced his bare collarbone around to the back of his neck. His fingers recording every flaw, circling around his starburst scar he felt the soldier in John tense. He dipped down and kissed him again, distracting him from the fingers that explored the injury that brought his doctor home. To him.

 

John surrendered himself to Sherlock’s  inquisitive hands, leaning into the kiss and bringing his hands up to rest on the detective’s knees. Sherlock broke the kiss and mock frowned at him,

 

“Excuse me, Dr. Watson, would you mind not _interfering_ with the investigation?” He took hold of John’s wrists and pressed them back at the man’s side. John smirked, _he wanted to play it that way?_ Well, John was game.

 

“Yes Sir, sorry, Sir.” He fixed his gaze to stare straight ahead at the open v of Sherlock’s shirt. A stare that he had ingrained in his muscle memory, back straight, hands by his sides it was almost relaxing.

 

Sherlock felt a thrill of arousal pool in his groin. The game was on!

 

“Stand up Captain, at ease.” John got to his feet in one fluid motion, spreading his legs out to hip distance and holding his hands clasped together behind his back. Sherlock could not think of one solitary thing that was more erotic than a shirtless Captain John Watson at his command.

 

“I’ve a few tests to register your basic intelligence. Will that be a problem?” Sherlock stood behind John, inspecting his form as he circled him.

 

“No Sir.” The soldier replied obediently, so disciplined and unmoving. Sherlock was keen to see just how long that would last.

 

“Start counting up in twos until you reach one hundred. You do know your two times table, don’t you Captain?” He almost sounded derogatory but John responded instantly, used to the less than pleasant way superior officer’s spoke to their subordinates.

  
“Yes Sir. Two. Four. Six…” He began counting, slowly, leaving a second between each number. Sherlock knelt before him, undoing his belt and the clasp at the top of his trousers. It took all his years of discipline training not to look down and watch what he was doing but instead he kept counting, concentrating on keeping his voice steady.

 

Sherlock dropped the clothing and tapped John’s legs, encouraging him to step out of them. John complied, leaving himself totally naked aside from his socks and his watch. In the vulnerability of the moment his counting faltered, Sherlock was fully dressed and on his knees with his face level with John’s groin.

 

“Problem Captain? Did you forget how to count?” Sherlock enquired, licking the hard arousal that jutted out in front of him in one broad stroke from root to tip. John moaned wantonly, his hips instinctively thrusting forwards.  John cleared his throat, as Sherlock pulled away and looked up at him sternly.

 

“Ughh…. No Sir.” The detective sighed dramatically,

 

“You’ve ruined the test now. Start again.” John followed the instruction quickly, his voice thick and lower than the first time.

 

“Two….. Four……. Six…...Oh God…….” He moaned, his legs wanted to buckle but through sheer force of will he remained upright and balanced. Sherlock had his balls in one hand, lazily rolling them and tugging as his mouth attempted to suck any intelligence John may have started with, out through his cock.

 

“‘O’ is a letter and God is not in the two times table, Captain. Start again.” Sherlock pulled away momentarily before swallowing down the member in front of him. Just the pure thought of what was finally happening between them, something John had wanted since.. he couldn't even remember. Was it when he had come back to life for him? Or was is as soon as Sherlock deduced everything about him the moment he lay eyes on him at Barts. His head was swimming from an intoxicating combination of lust, pleasure and anticipation. At this rate, John wasn’t going to reach ten let alone a hundred.

 

“Two… Four….Six…” The detective gave him a brief reprieve, instead he met John’s eyes, stood before him and began removing his own clothes. John’s mouth went dry as Sherlock left his shirt hanging open and started on his trousers, revealing inch by inch his sinfully delicious body until he swallowed thickly as the man stood totally nude.

 

“Fifty-four….fifty-six….” John continued to count, hoping he could make it to a hundred before Sherlock made him lose his mind. He watched as the detective went into his room and returned with a bottle of clear liquid. His counting faltered briefly, Sherlock looked up at him and raised an eyebrow, leaning his head forward as if to say 'Well?'

 

“Seventy-two…..Seventy-four……” He kept his eyes trained on the bottle but as Sherlock moved behind him his position restricted his view. He could see nothing but the wall straight ahead, but his hearing became more sensitive after the snap of the bottle’s lid.

 

“Eighty-eight…...ninety……” Sherlock tapped the back of his knees, he sank to his knees fluidly  and let his chest lower to the sofa as Sherlock applied gentle but insistent pressure to his back. Turning his head to the side he rested his cheek on the couch cushion so his counting wasn’t muffled and drew in a shaky breath. His knees still spread wide, he felt very exposed to the detective. A warm, slick finger briefly stroked at his entrance before sliding in to the first knuckle. The digit gave a few light thrusts before withdrawing almost all the way and starting the motion all over again.

 

John moaned out his last few numbers, his voice trembling as he forced his hands to stay where they were behind his back and not reach out for the detective slowly stretching him out.

 

“Nnghh… ninety-six…...ninety……..” Another finger joined the first, Sherlock languidly withdrew them, pushing them slowly back just before John had the chance to be empty. “Ninety-sev….... I mean….Oh …..God…...ninety-eight…….one hundred….Sherlock!” Sherlock had one hand on the small of John’s back to use as leverage, as John cried out the last number he thrust his fingers straight to where he knew John would be most sensitive, eliciting a strangled cry from the man. After a few merciless strokes he paused, his fingers buried in John’s arse before he leant down and whispered into John’s ear, covering the smaller man’s body with his own.

 

“Very good, Captain.” Sherlock’s voice came out as breathy and sultry, the warm air making his neck tingle, sending goosebumps down his arm. John could barely talk, Sherlock’s fingertips were pulsing at his prostate in an infuriatingly random pattern. He jerked forward against the couch, his cock desperate for any friction at all but it met only with air.

 

“Thank you, Sir.” John acknowledged the praise between breaths as he squeezed his eyes shut. He withdrew his fingers, leaving John still wanting and wiped them on the couch.

 

“You’ve been very good Captain, I just need your assistance with this last pressing issue.” Sherlock tapped his shoulder, John leant back on his knees and turned to the hand beside him. Guiding his cheek Sherlock directed to him to his own neglected arousal. Without any further coercing John opened his mouth, letting the detective slip his cock into the velvet warmth. Groaning he held the back of John’s head, pressing only slightly down. John moaned around the member in his mouth, the salty precome almost tasting sweet at the back of his throat.

 

Finally breaking his disciplined stance, he put his hands on Sherlock, one to stroke in time with his mouth and the other around one of his thighs to draw him in closer, deeper. Sherlock shuddered and realised the sheer amount of effort John would have had to endure just to stay standing when he was mercilessly teasing him. Keeping John firmly in hand he shuffled to the couch, sitting back he watched as John continued his task with unbridled enthusiasm.

 

John brought his eyes up to meet with Sherlocks. Almost unable to form a coherent thought, he lost himself into the rhythm of his detective. All that mattered was here and now... and Sherlock. Sherlock with his perfect mind and his delicate transport. That he was finally allowing someone in and that someone was John.

 

This would be an image he wanted to remember of John for a long time. John's hands on his cock, lips already slightly red and a trail of saliva down his chin. Tangling his fingers in John’s hair, Sherlock fucked up into his mouth, John taking it in his stride and barely pausing for breath. Their fictional case all but forgotten, John moaned thickly, the vibrations resonating against Sherlock’s cock and provoking an answering sound from the detective.

 

“Get up here, John.” Sherlock instructed with a gravelly voice, tugging on John’s hair firmly. John surfaced, pupils completely blown, his lips wet and slightly swollen. He settled his knees either side of Sherlock’s thighs, his arms going straight up around the detective’s neck to twist into his curls.

 

“Ready?” Sherlock asked, pressing his forehead against John’s until he was rebreathing the man’s breath.

 

“You have no idea.” John exhaled as he lowered himself onto the waiting detective. Sherlock placed his hands on John’s hips, driving up to meet him as their mouths crashed together again. He wanted to stay here forever, like this, buried within his blogger. John rolled his hips to meet each thrust, their breathing ragged and stolen in gasps between aggressive kisses. He had given up control for a while, but John wrestled it back, nipping Sherlock’s lower lip and causing his fingers to dig hard into his hips. The detective caught John’s cock and fisted it in time with his own thrusts, watching John’s eyes roll back in his head.

 

Moving above Sherlock, it didn’t take long for them to fall into an almost desperate rhythm. John meeting each thrust with a moan and a quick roll of his hips to drag as much of Sherlock’s cock past his prostate as he could manage in that position. More than once Sherlock had bitten the flesh between his shoulder and neck as John hovered above him, breaking the rhythm and denying Sherlock any friction.

 

This was better than any drug. John on top of him, claiming him, marking him. He listened to the hoarse moans when he let his teeth sink in, the way his breath stopped when he pulled on his hair just so. It was beyond intoxicating.

 

John trembled above him, incomprehensible words falling out of his mouth and into Sherlock’s shoulders as he peaked. His come coated Sherlock’s hand in thick spurts. Giving John a few slower strokes he brought his hand up between them, pushing two coated fingers into John’s mouth who accepted them greedily. That was it, that was enough to push him over the edge. Watching John sinfully clean his fingers and stare at him hungrily for more.

 

He moaned, capturing the blogger’s mouth in his own as he came, thrusting erratically and finally slowed to a slower, almost lazy pace. He could taste John’s come in the man’s mouth even as he felt John tighten around him with lingering aftershocks.

 

“John… I…” He tried to form a sentence but his brain was empty. Simply no words were coming to mind as he held John to him, resting his head on his shoulder and tracing letters into his back with idle fingers. John did not seem to be inclined to move either, exhausted and trembling he planted a kiss on the shoulder that supported his head and nodded.

 

“Yes.” Simply agreeing with the sentiment, a brief thought crossed his mind of how long he could keep Sherlock’s essence inside him without it being impractical.

 

They stayed there, still, in a lover’s embrace until John’s leg threatened to cramp. Carefully extraditing himself from Sherlock’s lap he pressed a fond kiss on the detective’s forehead and motioned with his eyes to the bathroom.

 

“Shower?” Sherlock had followed the gaze and suggested their next course of action somewhat hopefully.

 

“Come on then.” John’s suggestion saw Sherlock snap his head up, his eyes suddenly bright and alert. A shower with John in it. Now there was a John activity he could get his hands on!

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is owned by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and the BBC. We are writing this to fulfil our own perverted desires and earn nothing from this fic other than satisfaction.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was inspired by the tumblr post here. It was too cute not to adapt.
> 
> http://jwlives.tumblr.com/post/109275055652

John was wrenched from his sleep by a small explosion. Disoriented he snatched up his gun from beneath his pillow, armed it and ran to the door.

 

“Ugh…...I told you not to! John’s asleep you know!” The detective was unsuccessfully trying to yell quietly at someone familiar, it would seem. It could be Mycroft. All the more reason to come out armed, wipe the smug smile off his face for once. Taking no chances he swung open his door and ran out.

 

“Sherlock!” Quickly looking around he saw no intruders, only a hazy room and the acrid smell of melting plastic. He jumped as the fire alarm began to wail. Sherlock flung his hands in the air, gesticulating at the smoke alarm.

 

“Oh yes, that’s very helpful!” Sherlock shouted, sarcastically at the shrill yelping that grew louder almost as if to spite him. John clutched his chest as he willed his heart to slow down, resting his hands on his knees he disarmed his weapon.

 

“What the bloody hell is going on out here Sherlock?! Scared me nearly half to death, you great git!” Tucking the gun into the back of his waistband he strode over to the small fire extinguisher he had purchased with Sherlock’s debit card for this exact eventuality and aimed it at the source of the flames; the microwave. The detective stood there sheepishly as John pulled out a kitchen chair and pulled the battery out of the alarm, the wailing comically losing its pitch before stopping completely. Black smoke curled up from what was left of the small kitchen appliance and foam littered the counter and dripped in great globules to the floor.

 

The men stood there looking at each other. John in boxers, standing on a rickety wooden chair and Sherlock with flecks of foam on his face and in his hair.  John thought he ought to be angry, even just a little bit but he struggled to keep a straight face. Still balancing on the chair John couldn’t help but shake his head and smile, an impish grin curled up the corner of Sherlock’s mouth until they both burst out with peals of laughter.

 

Mrs. Hudson came bursting through the door yelling about a fire until she saw the mess and the two men laughing hysterically and huffed.

 

“I’ll be adding this to your rent, Sherlock!” This only caused both of them to laugh harder, Sherlock folded over the counter crying with laughter and John clutching his sides and the back of the chair for balance. Their landlord left in a huff, chased by their raucous giggles and muttering furiously.

 

Wiping tears from his eyes John got down from the table and rubbed his side where a stitch had begun to form.

 

“Oh Sherlock! What the hell were you trying to do anyway?”

 

Sherlock tested the foam covered microwave for any residual heat, upon finding none he rummaged around blindly for its contents before brandishing a misshapen lump of molten metal.

 

“Breakfast?” He gave John another toothy grin as his flatmate grabbed a blob of foam and smeared it across his face.

 

“Clean this up, I’m going to have a shower.” John turned away, shaking his head and headed towards the stairs. Sherlock had perked up at the mention of one John Watson showering. Showering meant naked. Naked and soapy. His imagination went crazy picturing the man in the steamy bathroom. As he floated off into Johnland he leant his hand on the foamy counter and slipped forward, crashing into the cupboard and releasing a torrent of lab equipment.

 

“You alright? Sherlock?” John called, hearing the commotion. He jogged back to the kitchen to find Sherlock with a simple grin plastered on his face. Shaking his head again he untangled the would-be-chef from his mess and wiped a stray collection of bubbles from his cheek.

 

“Honestly, what did the microwave ever do to you?” Sherlock grinned sheepishly as John wiped a hand on his boxers trying to remove the foam. “Its going to take ages to clean all this up!” It seemed Sherlock would not have to imagine a soapy John as the reality was standing in front of him. His skin was glistening with the foam where it had smeared on him and the gun was a weight that the boxer’s elastic simply wasn’t made to accomodate. The material dipped dangerously low on his hips, Sherlock was entranced with it and willed it to slip. If he had telekinesis let it show itself now!

 

Alas, John obliviously tugged at his boxers and blushed as he caught the detective frown with disappointment. Rolling his eyes he walked away, pulling his gun from his boxers and placing it on the side table.

 

“I’m really going now.” He left the detective to his own thoughts as he climbed the stairs and entered the bathroom.

 

221b Baker Street was never boring to say the least.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is owned by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and the BBC. We are writing this to fulfil our own perverted desires and earn nothing from this fic other than satisfaction.


	19. Chapter 19

“Molly?”

 

Sherlock called into the empty lab room. It was late but that was not so much of an unusual occurrence and when he received an urgent summons from Molly he had left immediately. He certainly owed her as much. As he reached the postmortem table he tapped it with his fingers, confused and slightly irritated. It was unlike the girl to summon him without a good reason, even less likely that she would not meet him as he arrived. Yet the lab was dark and empty with no indication that anyone had been inside for hours.

 

Without so much as a sound, a male figure wearing a dark hooded jumper leapt up from the other side of the table. Startled, he jumped back into another set of waiting arms. They held him in a tight bear hug, his chest felt on fire as his lungs were compressed to their bare minimum capacity. It was all over so quickly, one second he was struggling as hard as he could and the next the cold bite of the hypodermic needle piercing the skin in his neck. Sherlock was released as soon as the needle left his skin, whirling around he clutched his neck and felt his legs go weak. Falling to the floor he shuffled back against the table and scrambled around for a weapon but Molly always kept a tidy place, there was no stray scalpel to defend himself with here.

 

It took a little under a minute for the detective to be almost completely incapacitated and struggling to keep his eyes open. As he lay on the floor, looking up a yellow halo of hair swam into his vision. Instantly he recognised who it must be and groaned, even as his vision went black he tried desperately to hang onto consciousness.

 

“Oh no….. John…..” he murmured his last words before darkness took his remaining fuzzy vision.

 

She nodded, satisfied, and nudged his prone form with her boot.

 

“He’s out, lets go.” Turning on her heel she led the way and strode out quickly, leaving the two scruffy looking men to hoist Sherlock up between them and carry him out, his feet dragging on the floor.

 

Mary looked at the mess of a detective, slumped on the dirty mattress and for now, completely oblivious to his surroundings, with disgust. It was all too easy, a man bumped into one Molly Hooper on her way home and pick pocketed her phone. A quick read of her outgoing messages gave Mary exactly the syntax she needed to send a text to Sherlock that would sound like Molly. She was certain that Sherlock would accept the summons, an ambush was disappointingly simple. Mary had expected more of a challenge from the _great_ Sherlock Holmes.

 

“Two hundred quid? That’s all we get? Between the two of us?” The man, who was easily quadruple her small frame towered over her and shook the fist of notes at her.

“Here’s another hundred if you both leave now and never contact me again You were never even here.” She held out a crisp note which they took silently and left immediately.

 

Crouching down she ran a finger down the comatose man’s cheek and tucked a stray curl behind his ear.

 

“I don’t know what he sees in you.” She almost sounded endearing. “But we’ll soon find out.”

 

She slipped the cuff around his ankle and bolted it tightly. Taking the thick length of chain she secured it to the radiator opposite the blacked out window. She retrieved her camera from her shoulder bag she rubbed the lens with her shirt and perched on the edge of the table. Zooming in she made sure to miss the shackle and catch his relaxed face. This was the easiest part on him and he was unconscious for it, if she could feel pity she would have felt it there. But that was an alien emotion for her, so she continued her pictures. Hopping off the table she knelt down next to him and began removing his scarf.

 

Rubbing the material between her fingers she brought it to her face and inhaled deeply. Nothing extraordinary, slightly musky, faint traces of tobacco and cinnamon soap. Rolling her eyes she threw it behind her and pushed the trademark coat to the side, opening up his torso for inspection.

 

Nothing here either. Too skinny, expensive and tailored clothing. Leaning back Mary clicked a few more pictures and sat back on the table. He would be out for hours and she had only one errand to run before he awoke.

 

_And now to wait._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is owned by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and the BBC. We are writing this to fulfil our own perverted desires and earn nothing from this fic other than satisfaction.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The music referred to by Mary is this  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Str4eSUKG6s  
> Don't open the link till you get to there in the chapter ;)
> 
> Nothing against the artist.. I just find this music would really get to you

“Sherlock? I got some milk on the way home, we ran out.” John marched up the stairs and straight to the kitchen, putting the milk away and sighing at the sign on a suspicious looking bowl that read

 

_Do not touch. This means you, John._

 

Complying he didn’t touch it, but peered inside to see a revolting mix of several different meats covered in a fuzzy growth. Crinkling his nose he hastily shut the fridge and called out again.

 

“Sherlock? What the hell is in that bowl that’s infecting our whole fridge?!” John checked upstairs in Sherlock’s room, tapping at the door before concluding he was out and turned the kettle on. He hadn’t been home when he got up for work and hadn’t contacted John all day, but this was always a possibility with Sherlock. Taking his cup of tea back to his chair he placed it carefully on the side table and pulled his phone from his jeans pocket.

 

_Where are you?  - J.W._

 

One cup of tea later and a short chapter of his novel and still no reply. Now that was unusual. He sighed to himself and went back to his chapter until a quick, metallic sound roused his attention. John tried to place the sound, ultimately standing up and pacing the room the way a certain detective was apt to do. He knew Sherlock would have recognised it by now and already be investigating but as usual, John took the slow path. When it dawned on him, he cursed himself _stupid, stupid John_ and ran down the stairs to the front door.

 

An envelope sat on the mat, almost too thick to get through the slot. He had heard the metal of the letter slot as it swung closed. Whomever had delivered would be long gone by now, he didn’t even bother looking. Just took the envelope up to the kitchen table and sat down staring at it.

 

The last photos had been so disturbing that even his subconscious had reacted, he dreaded to think of what could be in this one. It was soft, like it had padding inside, something fragile perhaps? Had she started sending him gifts now? Opening it slowly he felt soft, familiar fabric and inched it out. His stomach sank as he recognised the deep blue. How could he not recognise the garment that he saw everyday?

 

Sherlock’s dark scarf lay halfway removed from the envelope as John bent over the sink dry heaving. He knew, he just _knew_ it! Lately Sherlock had been better with communicating, particularly if he was to be absent for more than a few hours. John had known something was wrong from the second he had entered an empty flat. Sherlock would never be without the damn scarf, he loved it so much he wore it in all seasons. The only way this could be here without the detective himself was if it were taken forcibly. As if on cue, his mobile vibrated against the table flashing up with Sherlock’s contact.

 

_Sherlock says hi._

 

A picture of the detective followed shortly. He had been relieved of his coat and wore just the shirt and trousers he had left in with the subtraction of his shoes and socks. But it was not his clothing that made John tighten his hands into fists.

 

Sherlock had been cuffed, his hands in front of him and already John could see they were too tight. The red rings around the detective’s wrists almost matched the red raw skin at his ankle where a metal shackle was clasped securely around it.

 

_He’s a bit tied up at the moment._

 

John forced himself to look back at the picture. Sherlock’s eyes spoke volumes above the unidentified material that had been shoved in his mouth and secured by a gaudy patterned tie. Clearly he was talking too much, or perhaps it was simply a pre-emptive move?

 

_What do you want Mary?_

 

John finally managed to type out the five words free of spelling errors and unhelpful autocorrect suggestions after three attempts. His hands shook with rage as he stared at Sherlock’s picture. The detective looked as calm as one could after being trussed up like the Sunday roast and held captive in what looked like a dingy basement somewhere.

 

_Look in the envelope._

 

He grabbed the envelope and removed Sherlock’s scarf reverently. Pictures tumbled out after it, easily a dozen, each one of Sherlock. John fought the nausea back as he assessed each one for the detective’s welfare. The first to hand showed Sherlock going into Bart’s hospital at night. _That must have been where he was when I got up this morning. But why?_ The next saw the detective unconscious on a filthy mattress and already shackled but fully clothed.

 

John shuddered as a brief look across the table saw a Sherlock being slowly divested of clothing. Surely she wouldn’t dare….

 

Quickly rifling through the remaining ones he saw a very angry looking Sherlock now awake and yelling, pointing at the camera with cuffed wrists. Other photos were extreme close ups of his face, the stuffed gag in his mouth and the small trail of saliva trailed down his chin. And the cut on his cheek, the swollen skin split and bleeding slightly. John quickly went through his catalogue of injuries that would cause that and almost growled as he realised what had happened. She had pistol whipped him, hard enough to break the skin. Probably to gag him.

 

_Give him back._

_Why should I?_

 

“I think its time we got my husband’s attention, don’t you?” She asked her captive. Grabbing her pistol she deliberately armed it, turning the safety off. The click of the bullet as it chambered echoed off the empty walls and Sherlock couldn’t look away as she aimed it at his chest. Surely she wouldn’t kill him, that would gain her nothing.

 

“Lie down, Sherlock.” For once, the gagged detective had nothing to say and obeyed, warily eyeing the weapon. He sank down, holding his hands over his chest as if they could protect him, the metal was cutting off his circulation already. Like a predator she slinked towards him, standing over his body with her feet either side of his hips. “Don’t you try anything now, detective.” Slowly she dropped to her knees until she was straddling the man and took out her phone. Giving a quick wriggle with her hips she pouted at him as his body failed to respond, “Nothing at all? How disappointing. Girls really aren’t your area, are they?”

 

Taking her phone she snapped a picture, her hand wrapped around the gun pointed beneath Sherlock’s chin, forcing the man into an unnatural position with his head bent back as far as possible. Clicking send she waited impatiently for the moment when she knew John would see it. Pressing the gun into the hollow beneath his chin she watched Sherlock struggle to breath against the obstruction with a morbid fascination. John raged at the phone, kicking back from his chair and throwing it into the living room where it struck a table and collapsed on itself.

 

_Leave him alone Mary! What do you want?_

_For him? You will give me everything._

Mary giggled and pressed the gun harder into Sherlock’s throat. He swallowed thickly and ordered his transport to remain calm, any reaction from his body could make breathing almost impossible.

 

“I think we have his undivided focus now, don’t you?” She rubbed the barrel of the gun up, following his jawline back across his cheek. “Don’t worry sweetie, I know just what you need.”

 

He was simultaneously relieved and anxious as she stood up, dropping his chin back to follow her with his eyes. Her behaviour was so erratic, it was nearly impossible to deduce what she was going to do next. Sherlock flexed his hands, trying to get feeling back as she moved away out from his line of sight. He only returned his attention as he heard a dialling tone and saw her placing her phone onto a stand that faced him. Almost immediately John’s face appeared in the screen, concerned and angry.

 

“Sherlock! I’m gonna get you out……”

 

“Hush, John. You’ll do no such thing. _Not if you want him in one piece_.” He fell silent, his eyes screaming anguish but his mouth tight lipped and shut. Sherlock watched her, frowning as he willed his brain to figure it out.

 

John stared at Sherlock as the detective stared back. Sherlock could hear the doctor’s raggedly controlled breathing as he reigned in his rage but he was distracted as to just what Mary was doing. But nothing could have prepared him for what she brought back from beyond the phone.

 

A fully laden syringe.

 

Cocaine, it had to be. He remembered back to when he had seen her at the dealer’s den buying an absurd amount of the white powder with an equally absurd amount of money. So this was what it was for. She dangled it above the phone where she knew John couldn’t see and smiled excitedly at Sherlock, his eyes widening and the protesting from behind the gag alerted him.

 

“Sherlock? What’s going on?”

 

“Tell him Sherlock. Oh wait, you can’t.” She laughed.

 

John winced, he knew that laugh, that tinkling merriment was one of the things he had loved about her. For her to laugh now…… He really didn’t know anything about her at all.

 

“I know that it's somewhat of a sore spot for you two. But Sherlock’s an addict, he isn’t going to say no. In fact, I bet he’ll take this willingly, right here in front of you, John!”

 

Mary twirled the syringe before the camera before disconnecting the call and tossing it aside. Her voice changed from girlish to candid as she turned to address Sherlock.

 

“But we both know you will need a bit of persuasion.”  She turned back to the desk and fished around in the top drawer. Producing a second syringe of an unknown substance Sherlock raced to identify it as he knew where it was most likely going to end up.

 

“This one will help you relax.” Flicking it she made her way back to the detective who, frustratingly, had not yet decided what it could be. He shook his head and backed up as far as his ankle would let him. As he shuffled and put himself off balance Mary got behind him and shoved him forward so he lay awkwardly face down on the dusty floor. Placing her knee on his back she quickly plunged the needle into his arm and delivered its content quickly as Sherlock bucked furiously shouting into his gag.

 

Quickly moving away Mary let the effects take a hold of the detective, watching him slowly struggle less and eventually rest his head on the ground. His body was lax and limp, he found that if he could muster the energy he could move a little but each movement felt like he was battling against a gravity a hundred times that of Earth.

 

“There, that’s much better. And now, to keep you awake.” Mary sounded almost chipper at that thought. She headed back to the desk and withdrew two objects that usually were never seen together; noise cancelling wireless headphones and duct tape. “Now, I know that you like to disappear when things aren’t going your way into your _Mind Palace_ but that’s _not_ how it's going down tonight.” Sherlock could hear the god awful noise pumping out of it from across the room and could not imagine just how loud it was going to be if she put them on him. Shaking his head against the floor he protested as loudly as he could but Mary advanced anyway.

 

“I’ll just slip these on nice and comfy and leave you to decide your own course of action. When you’re ready I’ll be right here, all you have to do is sit up, ask nicely and it will go away.” Kneeling next to him she took his head and forced the headphones on around his ears. Immediately all sensible thought left Sherlock’s brain. It was too loud and without structure or purpose. Or anything, just blinding noise. Mary made quick work of the duct tape, she would need to cut away some of his hair when she took it off but took no notice. Wrapping it across his forehead she covered his eyes with a scrap piece of cloth before taping over them leaving him sensorily deprived. Able only to focus on the music.

 

Leaving the man on the floor moaning incomprehensibly already, she jumped up and sat back on the desk watching him. He didn’t even try to take them off, even if his body responded to his commands it was taped so tightly to his head that he could feel the tape pressing into his skin.

 

_Too loud. It’s too much._

 

Sherlock struggled to retain a single thought. Every time one rolled around it dissipated before he could properly process it. He tried thinking of the one thing that usually wiped other thoughts out of his head; John. But he couldn’t even picture the man’s face. A face burned into his memory, that he usually drew upon for strength and guidance. The image merely dissolved into the music which was so devastatingly loud it physically hurt but no matter which way he turned his head the volume did not abate.

 

_What are you doing to him?_

_…..._

_Mary?_

_……._

_Please don’t do this._

__  
  
  


\--------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

John waited anxiously as the phone rang out. Immediately redialing he finally got hold of an irritated Detective Inspector.

 

“John, what do you want? I’m kind of busy here!” In the background there were a few shouts followed by a loud bang. “Settle down back there!” Lestrade yelled, holding a hand over the phone that did little to muffle the sound.

 

“Greg… Its Mary.” John uttered. Lestrade froze, whatever followed those two words, it was not going to be good. “She’s got Sherlock.”

 

"What do you mean she's 'got sherlock'? “Oh God John, where?” He dropped into his chair and rested his head in his spare hand.

 

“I wish I knew.” John replied glumly. “She sent me his scarf….” His voice broke and he bit back a sob. “In the mail, with pictures of him. I need your help.”

 

“Of course, I’ll be right there.” Lestrade motioned Donovan over as he hung up and leant in to talk in her ear.

 

“I have to go. Its John’s ex-wife, she’s gone and kidnapped Sherlock.” Lestrade shook his head sharply as Donovan smiled, as if it were a petty game or a joke. Her smile vanished instantly

 

“What will she do with him? She won’t…. kill him, right?” She asked, walking beside Lestrade as he strode towards the entrance. Lestrade paused holding the door and sighed.

 

“I don’t know, I just don’t know.” He strode towards his car and within seconds was gone. Donovan stared after him thoughtfully, she had no love for the freak, but even so, she didn’t wish him dead. And John…. What would John do without him? Again?

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is owned by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and the BBC. We are writing this to fulfil our own perverted desires and earn nothing from this fic other than satisfaction.


	21. Chapter 21

Lestrade knocked on the door tentatively and was met by a John with eyes fraught with anxiety.

 

“Greg. Thank God. We have to get him back, God knows what she's doing to him now.” Lestrade followed John into the kitchen where Sherlock’s scarf had been folded up neatly next to a stack of photos that had been laid out carefully. The detective inspector tried to distance his emotions from what the pictures showed, but it was hard when the man in the pictures was his consulting detective. And dare he say it, friend? Of sorts. He had to admit a platonic affection for the man, equal parts quirky to genius.

 

Scanning the photos he tried to focus not on the man but on his location. Any clues could narrow it down, but all he could deduce was that the room had not been used in quite some time as it was in a state of disrepair. He knew that if their situations had been reversed and Sherlock was studying the picture there would already be squad cars racing to the rescue. However, he wasn’t here, so they would have to do without.

 

“I think she’s going to force him to use cocaine.” Lestrade looked up from the photos and blinked at him.

 

“Why do you say that?”

 

“She called. Said that he was an addict and that I would watch him willingly shoot up. As if that would lower my opinion of him. Hardly counts as a relapse if you are coerced.” John muttered angrily, staring darkly at the photographs.

 

“Any ideas as to how to proceed?” Lestrade asked carefully avoiding the drugs issue entirely.

 

“You are the police, aren’t you? Go investigate?” He replied, his tone annoyed and short. Lestrade nodded and took a photo that exposed the most of his location.

 

“I’ll give this to the boys, see if they can’t pull up a decent location to start with. Anything. In the mean time, let me know if she contacts you again. She’ll be too clever to trace, just try and keep her talking in case she lets something slip.” He advised, pocketing the picture and heading towards the door.

 

“She won’t.” Came the quiet response. Lestrade quite agreed but he needed to give John some support.

 

“Try anyway.” He slipped out the front door and looked at the photograph again. It yielded no new information to his eyes, but he’d have the boys and their high tech gadgets have a go. It was the least he could do for him. For John.

 

\-------------------------------------------------------------------

 

It did not take long for the detective to break. Mary was almost disappointed but not by any means surprised. Pain he could have endured, it was only his ‘transport’ after all. But this was an attack on his mind, an overload of his senses. To not form a coherent thought, to not even be able to retain a single image was beyond imaginable for a mind as brilliant as Sherlock’s.

 

He had tried, he had tried to hold on for as long as possible but without his mind functioning he was unable to track the passing of time. Had it been hours or mere minutes? The music had no discernable structure so he hadn’t even been able to count how many cycles. Fighting the urge to sit up he had almost forgotten why he was holding out in the first place until an outline of John’s face flickered briefly before being drowned out again by the noise. The unrelenting noise.

 

Mary watched passively from behind her laptop as Sherlock whimpered into his gag. She could only imagine what was going on in that clever head of his. His movement caught her eye, he was trying to sit up but the effects of the sedative was hindering every effort. She could help him. Clearly she had broken him and he was trying to give up, but this way was entirely more entertaining.

 

_Are you comfortable? The show is about to begin._

 

She shot off a text to the waiting John and watched as Sherlock struggled to his knees.

 

_Don’t do this Mary, please! I’ll do whatever it takes._

_I know you will, my love. But this is just to show you what he’s capable of._

 

Mary went to Sherlock and removed his gag, letting it rest around his neck, she wanted John to hear him speak. She wanted to hear him beg. He stretched his aching jaw painfully and licked his lips. Placing the phone back on its cradle she began recording.

 

“Mary!” Sherlock shouted hoarsely, unable to even hear himself over the blare of the headphones, looking at where he thought she was but disoriented he yelled to a spot two metres to her right. “I yield. Stop this!”

 

The silence was deafening as she tapped on the keyboard and the music cut away immediately. He physically reeled at its absence and shook his head, blinking rapidly. The residual ringing in his ears was almost as bad as the noise itself and he still found himself talking louder than necessary.

 

“Mary?” Looking around blindly he brought his hands to his face to try and remove the tape but Mary sent a blast of noise through making Sherlock convulse as though he had been shocked and dropping his hands instantly.

 

Leaning down towards the microphone of the laptop she spoke softly, transmitting her voice directly into the ears of the shell shocked detective.

 

“Beg for it.”

 

“I… what?! I said I yield damn it!  Just give it to me! Isn’t that what you want?!” He demanded furiously. His head was swimming with thoughts that chased each other round, finally free of the noise he struggled to focus on Mary without being able to see her.

 

Sherlock recoiled physically as she sent another punishing blast through the headset.

 

“Now, now, I said be nice. Beg.”

 

The detective never begged for anything in his life. _Except John_. He battled his pride to just humiliate himself, just give up so it would be over but he took too long as his brain refused to focus and the impatient Mary grew agitated.

 

“Clearly you aren’t as ready as you thought. I’ll ask again later.” She tapped at the keyboard and the cacophony of sound resumed once more.

“No, wait!” Sherlock cried out and shuddered hard enough to topple onto his side where he curled up as much as his bonds would allow. Rocking gently he had no gag to suppress the moans that fell from his mouth.

 

Within minutes Mary watched the proud detective weep and plead from the filthy floor of the abandoned office with satisfaction.

 

Taking the recording from her phone she accessed the video from her laptop, cropping and editing until it showed of Sherlock only what she wanted. Playing it back her smile widened, the sounds coming from the man on the floor as she sent the video to her husband were just perfect. Begging and unintelligible noises all tangled with each other. Mary didn’t think she had ever heard such music to her ears.

 

\----------------------------------------------------------------------

 

John heard his phone’s bright trill as a video message came from Sherlock’s phone. Taking a deep breath he opened it to a surprisingly short video.

 

_...Damnit! Just give it to me! ...Damnit! Just give it to me! ...Damnit! Just give it to me!_

 

It showed Sherlock on his knees, hands cuffed and resting on his thighs with the top of the image cutting off just above his mouth. The gag removed he could see it hanging loosely around the man’s neck. The video looped round, John couldn’t bring himself to turn it off, watching it repeatedly until the low battery message stopped paused the video and John could breathe again, released from watching his detective’s torment.

 

What had she done to him to reduce him to that? After all the work they had both put into his sobriety, for him to demand it she must be coercing him. But he looked physically unhurt, no wounds or blood, just pale and trembling. John felt sick, his empty stomach threatening rebellion again he took a few deep breaths and closed his eyes. Lestrade would be returning any minute and Mycroft was impossible to get a hold of. Between them, they had to get him back and end this.

 

He forwarded the video to Lestrade and put his phone on the table, staring at it as he waited for the reply.

 

Lestrade walked in through the front door watching the video before closing his phone in disgust.

  
“What is she doing to you?.” John muttered helplessly. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is owned by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and the BBC. We are writing this to fulfil our own perverted desires and earn nothing from this fic other than satisfaction.


	22. Chapter 22

It was quite some time before Mary decided that the detective had suffered enough. Turning off the music she watched him struggle again to his knees and started the recording once again.

 

“Ready now, detective?” She asked through the laptop, though she needn’t have bothered. He had not stopped begging since she had put the music back on.

 

“Please Mary, I need it, give it to me please.” Sherlock cried shamelessly, he didn’t think he could survive another few seconds with that noise in his head. Everything hurt and he couldn’t focus enough to numb it out, his head was fuzzy from the mild concussion and the cocktail of drugs already in his system. His wrists burned where the cuffs had rubbed raw and he felt nauseous from the overload of sensory information.

 

“But what about John? You’ll disappoint my husband if you succumb to your addiction.”

 

Sherlock paused, torn, but his mind could barely summon up his image now let alone the feelings John conjured within him.

 

“I know, but I don’t care. I need it, please Mary, you said if I begged…..”

 

She walked to him, taking her knife she cut away the headphones. Some of his hair came away attached to the tape, other bits of tape remained in it. His curls hacked until they were unrecognisable. She shoved the gag back into his mouth and tightened the tie that kept it in place. The detective would not be needed to talk any more. Moving away she threw him the syringe he gambled would have cocaine in it and adjusted the camera. She video called John who picked up within mere seconds of the call connecting.

 

“Mary!.....”

 

“Hush John.” She admonished,  turning back to Sherlock. “Go ahead and take it then. If that’s what you want.”

 

His hands trembled as he held the syringe, no tourniquet this time but he did his best to encourage a vein to rise. Awkwardly, with cuffed wrists, he managed to contort his arms until the syringe would be able to drive home.

 

“You see John, look at him. He doesn’t care about you, all he cares about is his addiction. Isn’t that right Sherlock?” But without the punishing blast of the headphones Sherlock simply narrowed his eyes at Mary and pushed the needle’s point into the crook of his elbow.

 

Instant euphoria and relief. He bit down on the gag as he emptied the contents into his body and threw the syringe from him. Lying down his side he rested his head against the cool concrete and drew a large breath in through his nose. But it was wrong. It wasn’t his usual high, this wasn’t the drug he had thought it was, presumed it was. Something else in the mix, drowsy, pulse rate dropping, muscles relaxing. As his consciousness narrowed to a pinpoint he clawed at the gag. _John…._

 

John was disappointingly quiet.

 

“Nothing to say, my love?” Mary enquired, sweetly. Trying to keep his anger in check he gave his answer through his teeth.

 

“Mary, we both know you want something otherwise you wouldn’t have taken Sherlock and forced him to do this.”

 

“I didn’t force him…” Mary protested but John cut her off.

 

“You did, I know you did. Don’t play games, tell me what you want!” He demanded furiously.

 

“You. I want to meet with you. Maybe a candlelit dinner? So we can talk.” John blinked, surprised. Of all the demands he had thought she would say in his head, this was not one of them.

  
“You want a _date_?” He asked confused as Mary nodded.

 

“Just us. No distractions. Somewhere public. We can fix this John, and just be us again. Remember how happy we were on our wedding day? On our honeymoon?” John felt the anger pool in his stomach as recalled his own false happiness. All this for a date so they could reminisce? But what other choice did he have? At the very least he could force her to reveal Sherlock’s location. He had already given the pictures to Lestrade so he could try and work out where she had been hiding. The irony was, that if Sherlock had been presented those pictures he could’ve narrowed it down to a very specific set of warehouses along a riverbank of the industrial area. However Lestrade was far from possessing the genius mind of one Sherlock Holmes and so he instead had sent out an army of police officers searching every imaginable place. For now, John would have to play along.

 

“Fine, I’ll do it. But if he dies, deal is off. So you’d better un gag him in case he vomits and chokes on it while you’re out.” Mary rolled her eyes but agreed, Sherlock wouldn’t be much of a bargaining chip dead at least now the he was dosed with heroin he would be quiet.

 

“Fine. So we’ll meet later this afternoon, say five at Hyde Park? We could have a picnic….” She offered softly. John shook his head and growled

 

“I’ll see you there at five, to talk. That’s all. And then Sherlock is returned to me, unharmed?”

 

“If you behave yourself.”

 

“I will if you do.” He disconnected the call and gripped his head in his hands. He’d have to tell Lestrade so he could back him up if necessary, all he needed was Sherlock’s location.

 

Mary clapped her hands together gleefully as though she had asked John on a first date. She had so much to do before her date, she’d have to freshen up and say goodbye to Sherlock.

  
  


\-------------------------------------------

  
  


Sherlock felt the rough surface of the mattress graze against his cheek. He could focus on a few things around the room, but just barely. His ankle was still cuffed tightly to the radiator, leaving him lying on an awkward angle across the filthy mattress. His wrists were still bound so tightly that he could feel the skin breaking. Other than the footsteps and muffled voice of Mary, presumably on the phone to John, there wasn't much else the detective could observe around the room. No means within reach to assist an escape. Of course not, Mary wasn't stupid enough to leave anything within arms reach.

 

He heard the conversation come to an end and Mary slide the phone back into her jacket pocket. As her footsteps approached, he inadvertently made a pathetic attempt to shift back across the mattress, but found it useless given his bindings.

 

"John wants to start working it out, isn't that wonderful!" She exclaimed with such a glee that seemed so out of place. She knelt down to Sherlock and ran her fingers across his forehead, brushing the stray locks from his eyes. "I told you he doesn't need you. You're just a junkie"

 

Sherlock pressed his eyes closed in defeat. She was right. John had promised he would help Sherlock and how did he repay him? By relapsing at the first opportunity. He wasn't good for John, he was a burden that just caused him more pain. The various dates he'd intentionally ruin just so John would stay with him. The way he had failed him while in pursuit of Moriarty. The way he hadn't realised sooner what this lunatic was up to and now it's too late. John should be free of him.

 

And of her.

 

Whatever was between them wasn't important at the moment. What mattered was keeping John safe from this woman. If he had agreed to meet her he'd be smart. He could be smart sometimes. John would have no doubt contacted Lestrade with the images to try and pinpoint a location and John would only be meeting her surely to try and talk her out of this sensibly. _Silly doctor, you do love your dangerous situations._

He had been so engrossed in deducing John’s actions that he barely even felt the cannula inserted into his arm. Mary had fastened it in place with micropore where it initially met the skin, then duct tape around his bicep and forearm. It's not as if he could remove it with his wrists bound together but taping the tube to his arm would prevent him simply ripping it out by pulling his arm back.

 

"Alright then detective. You're all set." She took a step back to admire her work before making a few last adjustments on the IV drip. "Now don't go pulling on this." She spoke to him as if he were a child.  "Any physical disruption to it will cause it to administer a much higher dose than even you can take." Sherlock listened to the sound of her footsteps slowly disappearing down the corridor. "Dont wait up!"

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is owned by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and the BBC. We are writing this to fulfil our own perverted desires and earn nothing from this fic other than satisfaction.


	23. Chapter 23

The sound of children’s playful screams and laughter still rang out in the busy playground. The extended daylight hours meant that the poor parents came out in droves with their children. John put his hands in the pockets of his jacket and scanned the benches for Mary.

 

A small sandy haired boy ran into his legs on the way to the swings. He looked up at John with a rounded, chubby face and eyes that were wide and fearful. Before John could comfort him a lady in a pantsuit and heels scooped the child up and shot a disapproving glare at John. He imagined he probably did look out of place. A man in a children’s playground along with a glower on his face and dark circles beneath his eyes.

 

Finally he spotted her, sitting alone in a sundress John had told her in the past was his favourite. As he approached her she got up and hugged him.

 

"Hello sweetheart!" Mary shouted as she embraced him before lowering her tone dangerously. “Play along John.” She warned in his ear as he hands slipped beneath his jacket to check for his firearm. As her fingers brushed against the warmed metal tucked into the back of his jeans she tutted.

  
“Naughty boy.” John tensed, her hands at his side, the left one flexing subconsciously. “I hope you don’t intend on using it, Sherlock would be ever so disappointed. And dead.” She added last part so casually as though merely saying he might be inconvenienced. Mary was so close, too close to him. He could feel her breath and smell the Claire De La Lune perfume that clung to her skin. Planting a chaste kiss on his cheek she sat back down on the bench and pat the space beside her. Tightlipped, John sat down, bristling as Mary looped her arm through his and rested her head on his shoulder.

 

The picture perfect happy couple, or so they would appear to the casual observer. No one paid more than a passing glance to them.

“Mary…..” John began, looking straight forward but she squeezed his arm hard and chastised

him sweetly   
“Now, now John, let’s just enjoy the moment.” He almost growled with frustration and shoved the urge to simply walk away deep beneath the surface.

“Mary, you wanted to talk with me, here I am, so talk.” A soft breeze toyed with her hair and the

slowly dying light lit up the highlights that made it glow. He felt a kick of regret and heartache as his mind took him back to happier times.

 

It was as if Mary knew John’s thoughts and sighed

“It can still be like this John, you and I, kids…..”

“No Mary, it can’t. You lied to me, not just about something trivial that I could forget. Even if you had been unfaithful we could have worked through it. but the pregnancy, the marriage...even your name is false!!”

 

“I never lied to you John, you never asked the right questions.”

“No, it never bloody occurred to me to ask simple things, like if Mary was your real name!” John looked at her incredulously, his voice ringing until he suddenly remembered what was at stake, or rather, who.

“And the pregnancy?” Mary shrugged, placing a hand on her stomach as if caressing the fictional unborn.

“Well I didn’t say I was pregnant. Sherlock announced that for me.” Deciding that he couldn’t talk about their fake happy life any more John steered the topic away.

“Speaking of Sherlock, where is he? He had better be safe, Mary.” john tried to keep his voice level as he spoke of his detective. The worry made his voice tremble slightly, prompting Mary to put her hand in a comforting gesture on his knee which only made his skin crawl.

 

Placing her hand in her pocket she withdrew her phone and held it out in front of them, as though she were taking a ‘selfie’ with her husband and smiled. Instead of the camera showing their own faces it instead showed a photo of a still bound Sherlock, unconscious with a drip attached to his arm, timestamped that it had been taken less than one minute ago.

 

John struggled to keep the anger and despair from his face, he was alive but the drip taped to his arm alarmed him.

 

“What's in the drip, Mary?” he asked through his teeth as she pocketed her phone and placed her hand on his thigh.

“Its my insurance policy, John. If you don’t play along or if you try something silly, it will inject 500 mg of heroin directly into his bloodstream. That's more than enough to cause an overdose even for an 'experienced' user like Sherlock. He will die in pain. And alone. So you just be a good boy.” John growled, his left hand clenched in a tight fist around his phone within his pocket.

“Where is he? This is about us, it has nothing to do with Sherlock.” Mary laughed back at him

“It has everything to do with Sherlock! I’ve had to battle for your attention and affection ever since we met and he was dead then! It only got worse when he came back. Demanding your time and love and adoration. And now you’re _fucking_ him.” She sounded so calm, with a slight smile permanently fixed to her face. Jon froze and turned his head to stare at her

“How…”

“How do I know? John, please. I’m your wife..”

“Not my wife..”

“Yes, I am." She smiled. "You refuse to speak to me long enough to make anything official. So officially yes. I am still your wife and I know you better than you know yourself. And I know him. Also….” She withdrew her phone from her pocket again and they posed for another selfie as Mary flicked through a number of compromising pictures and whispered in his ear.

 

“Honestly John, for someone who ‘isn’t gay’ you certainly love having his cock in your mouth.” John flushed hotly as a picture of his own head buried in Sherlock’s groin flashed up. She swiped her finger sideways and John saw himself tangled with Sherlock in his chair, the detective claiming his mouth. He looked away but she dug her fingernails into his arm and regained his attention. The last photo sent John’s face a deep shade of red and a burning hatred for Mary sparked within his stomach.

 

John was on the floor, his hands behind his back and Sherlock’s fingers buried in his arse. He looked at his face, blissful and in the throes of his first real sexual encounter with Sherlock. How could she have taken these photos without their knowledge, granted they were distracted, however…. Just how insecure was 221b Baker Street?

 

“Do you take it up the arse often John? Was I simply eye candy, a way to convince yourself you were straight? I don’t think I've been the only person telling a few fibs.” John willed his rage to settle as he spoke quietly, firmly and directly to the point.

 

“What do I need to do to get Sherlock back? Where is he?” She pocketed her phone again and shook her head, as though saddened.

“You need to come back to me, John. Like old times, we could live together and be happy, weren’t you happy with me John?” John winced, it still hurt, the memories of their newlywed wife, the expected child, despite everything being fabricated.

“I was bored, Mary.” His wit escaped the mental filter of words to say to the psychopath that is holding your lover hostage. Mary’s smile faltered for a second before her sing-song voice resumed.

 

“Bored? Well, is this exciting enough for you now, John?”She gestured to the pocket that housed her phone as they reminding him of Sherlock.

“Where is he?” John persisted, trying to reign in his voice until he could be assured that it wouldn’t insult her.

“John, it hardly matters. It’ll be gone by tomorrow morning. Unless, you agree to come back to me.” _It’ll be gone_. What the hell was that supposed to mean? She obviously wasn’t referring to Sherlock else she would’ve used ‘he’ so ‘it’ could only refer to the location. But how could a place be gone?

“Plus, if you don’t agree to give us another chance, I’ll simply pump the rest of the drug into his system and he’ll be gone before you can say World’s Only Consulting Detective.”

 

John was faced with a choice then, abide her request and promise to stay with her forever. Or at least until he could free Sherlock. Or try and force the location from her. Mary watched her husband closely, she could almost see him thinking, he was such a loud thinker.

 

“If you’re even thinking naughty thoughts John, I should let you know that if I don’t check on him and put a code into my phone at regular intervals he will die anyway. And would it be so bad to come home? Sherlock will be alive, sort of, and we could be happy again. Don’t you just want to be happy John, with me?”

 

John stared out into the playground in front of them. He watched as the children played innocently with each other. Not a care in the world. No drug addict, suicide faking best friends. No former assassin, _pregnancy_ faking wives. Just running and climbing and building sand castles and knocking them down again. John’s eyes widened as the realisation sunk in.

  
_Knocking them down again_

 

John turned to face Mary, still eagerly awaiting an answer with a dangerous look on her face. She was going to demolish the building with Sherlock still inside. He forced the words. He needed to to make sure they got to Sherlock in time. It could come down at any moment.

  
“Yes.”   
Mary’s face lit up.

“I do just want to be happy.”

Mary threw her arms around John and held him close. “Oh, John! I knew it! I knew you’d realise what you really _need_!”

John had to act quickly. The moment she raised her arms to bring John into her embrace, he slipped his phone from his pocket. As she held him, he softly typed a quick message into his phone, carefully as to not arouse suspicion. But the embrace ended too soon. He was only half sure the message was able to send before he had to, equally as quickly, return it to his pocket as she lowered her arms.   
  
“Oh, my love. I just know you’re going to be so happy from now on!”

“I know I will be.”

 

She took his right hand in her left and led the way to a stroll through the park. John tensed his left fist so hard he could feel the tendons strain.  
  
 _Come on Greg. We can do this._  
  
  


\----------------------------------------------------------------------

 

_Demolitions - JW_

 

Lestrade’s eyes widened. _Brilliant!_ If he accessed the government’s listings on buildings to be demolished that would narrow his location down considerably.

"Donovan! Find me _every_ building thats set to be knocked down in the next 48 hours ." Sally furrowed her brow and parted her lips, but before she could ask, he shouted "Go!". She nodded and slipped back into her office and onto her PC. He attempted to look at the photos again objectively, but only saw the man he had saved from his addiction years before. _Hang in there, Sherlock. We'll get you out._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is owned by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and the BBC. We are writing this to fulfil our own perverted desires and earn nothing from this fic other than satisfaction.


	24. Chapter 24

The room around him was playing tricks on his subconscious. Sherlock was sure whatever he was being injected with had some connection to the Baskerville solution but how could Mary have gotten that? No, this was something else. This was whatever she bought from Wiggins some weeks ago. Was it weeks? How long had he been tied to this radiator? How long had she blasted that dreadful noise into his head? He tried to catalogue the known substances that were traded in white powder form - _My head.._ \- that junkies had access to. But if he acquired it specially for her, god knows what sort of suppliers he has connections with. That train of thought would come to a dead end. Sherlock simply couldn't access those parts of his mind palace. They had been hindered too greatly.

 

Though other memories that had been previously deleted seemed to resurface. Basic knowledge of the solar system poured in all at once. He was sure he could have written an entire section in the Science of Deduction on the planets, their various characteristics and their potential to hold life.

 

Then all at once, Sherlock could physically feel the amassing of pain rip through his chest and he lost his breath. Their faces came flooding back to him and the memories associated to them grabbed at his heart and contracted it with such a force that he thought his heart may burst.

 

Sherlock had deleted them. He _had_ to. He had filtered through the memory of the first on repeat for weeks following the encounter trying to piece together what he had done wrong. After the second, at least he had something to compare it to but even then there was still nothing. Not enough consecutive data to form a distinct conclusion. He hadn't picked up on any hints towards their true intentions.

 

Sherlock had almost agreed to a third some years later purely for the purposes of collecting more data on the subject but ultimately decided against it. He had seemed kind and honest, but hadn't they all? Sherlock had attempted in the past to fine tune his ability to observe emotions but he had overall found them unpredictable and false. Some people he could read as easily as he could read a corpse. He could pinpoint everything that was wrong in their marriage or pick an overprotective stepfather in their mannerisms but as soon as Sherlock had become _involved_ it was as is his senses just turned off.

 

So when the third had appeared truly interested in him, Sherlock kept him and studied him and tried to deduce any motives that he would be concealing but only had to turn him away eventually. There had been a rather theatrical argument in regards to whether or not Sherlock actually _had_ a heart. He seemed to be reliably informed from each of the three partners that he didn't have one.

 

But then there was John. He had attempted to stop any interest before it had began at Angelo's the night they first met. Sherlock figured if he it shut down early and lay the rules of the relationship out to be read clearly by each entering party then they would know exactly what they were getting into. A purely professional relationship to help John with his, frankly obvious, _need_ for dangerous situations. Perhaps that was his addiction? At least it was somewhat safer and _marginally_ more sensible than Sherlock's.

 

Sherlock shuffled down slowly to the lower end of the mattress, allowing his legs to be curled up in front of him. He needed to focus on deleting them again. He couldn't have them all in their with their judgement and their words. He silently and gently started to rock back and forth, attempting to will them from his mind entirely and replace them with John. He felt another dose coldly pour into his bloodstream. He pressed his eyes together tight. _Please John. Find me._

\--------------------------------------------------------------

 

"Greg!" Donovan burst into his office and thrust a pile of papers in front of where Lestrade was sitting. "There's a number of factories, warehouses and residential estates listed to be razed in the next two days. Here are the ones that could match the photos."

 

Lestrade sifted desperately and urgently through the files until something caught his eye. He went back and read in disbelief and laughed.

 

"Of course! Of course its there!" He threw the papers back onto the desk and rose to his feet.

 

"Of course he's _where_?" Sally bit back. "All these places look the bloody same, how is this one any different?" Greg grabbed his coat, bolt cutters and fastened the gun in his holster. "Donovan, suit up. We've got a detective to find"

 

They approached the warehouse without sirens. If Mary had left someone there to guard Sherlock, the last thing they needed was to startle them with police presence. Greg parked a little ways down the road and silently exited the police car. Executing great caution, Lestrade and Donovan made their way towards the den. The same drug den as the cyanide dealer. It made perfect sense. Hiding in plain sight. The building wasn't scheduled to come down for a good twelve hours so the demolition crew was no where to be seen.

 

As they reached the door, Greg signalled to Sally. _On my mark. Search and sweep_. She nodded in agreement. He took a step back and kicked the door in with a mighty crash. The wooden door smashed into the wall behind it, resonating the crash through the whole warehouse. They performed a small sweep in the immediate entry way. Once they were satisfied it was clear, _with a crash that loud, someone would have come to investigate,_ Donovan broke off from Lestrade to search the upstairs area.

 

Lestrade continued downstairs, cautiously peering around corners as he passed them. With most of the area covered, there was still no sign of Sherlock. He pulled his radio out of his pocket and softly asked

"Anything up there?"

"Nothing. Looks like the place was crawling not too long ago but they've left."

 

He was so sure this had been the place. He lowered his weapon, defeated, and leant back against a wall. In a final attempt, he called out "Sherlock!" but was only answered with silence.

 

He sighed and forced himself upright. Right then. Back to square one. Lestrade turned and head back towards the door. Maybe if he tried one of these adjoining warehouses.

 

"John?"

 

His ears perked and he spun on the spot, almost immediately breaking into a sprint in a desperate effort to reach the voice. "Sherlock? Sherlock!"

 

Sherlock wasn't sure if he had heard someone call his name or if the drugs were clouding his hearing on top of everything else. All that he knew was that Mary had left some time ago and he was fairly certain he'd been left alone. He'd listened for voices, footsteps, anything as a sign that someone else was there but it had been agonisingly quiet. He'd never yearned for another noise, another voice as he did now. Is that was it was? His mind giving into his desperation. Most likely. _But what if it wasn't._

 

"John?" How he had frantically hoped John had managed to best the lie that was Mary Morstan and had come barging in to rescue him. He didn't care if he was no good for John. He just wanted to see him one last time before he gave up completely.

 

"Sherlock?"

 

No. Not John. But he knew that voice. Sherlock made a desperate attempt to sit up but his head was everywhere and nowhere. The walls were spinning and he couldn't tell which way his voice was coming from. He squinted towards, what seemed to be a door. Was he really here?

 

"Greg!"

 

Lestrade followed the echo of Sherlock's voice down corridors and through adjoining rooms until he found him. He let out a quick gasp, begging to replace the air that escaped him as he saw what she had done to him. He looked dishevelled, cut and bruised and not at all the proud detective he usually was. Lestrade ran to his side but Sherlock groggily warned him away.

 

“Greg! Its Mary. She’ll be back any minute, go, just go! Find John.” He waved the detective inspector away feebly, wincing at the cannula in his arm.

 

“John is fine, he’s with her now, distracting her.” Lestrade pulled out his bolt cutters and severed the chain between the cuffs, doing the same for the chain attached to his ankle. He couldn't contain his inappropriately timed smile at the fact Sherlock had actually gotten his first name right. Did he always know and was just teasing him? The memory of those playful times at cases made him smile but only briefly as returned to work on removing Sherlock’s restraints. The metal had rubbed his skin raw, dried blood encircled both wrists and his ankle.

“What did she do to you?” Lestrade muttered under his breath, but Sherlock was struggling to remain conscious, let alone answer any questions about his well being. Standing up Lestrade took the drip of its hook and pulled the tubing out, letting the liquid pour uselessly on the ground. He left the tube dangling from Sherlock’s arm, it was imperative they be in and out before Mary returned. She was too unpredictable and dangerous to have an altercation with in such tight quarters.

 

“John’s _with_ her? No. No. You have to -” Sherlock dread to think what she’d be doing to John. He couldn't find the words. Surely Lestrade wouldn't have just _left_ John with her. She was capable of anything.

 

“Come on, Sherlock, up we go. We have to move. I’ll get the cuffs removed when we’re clear.” He put a strong arm beneath Sherlock’s and wrapped the man around his shoulder, pulling him across the room. Sherlock groaned in pain, his body did not want him moving and attacked him with vicious waves of nausea. Pushing Lestrade away he fell to his knees and tried to throw up the little contents that remained in his stomach. The officer patted him on the back and offered his hand to get the detective back upright. Sherlock's feet were sluggish and slow to respond, most of the time dragging behind them rather than keeping up. Donovan saw Lestrade sagging under Sherlock’s weight and took his other arm, supported between the two officers they escorted him out of the building and away from the hell that Mary had imposed on him.

 

“John….” Sherlock kept mumbling John’s name over and over again. They bundled him into the back of Lestrade’s car and sped away quickly, taking him straight to the nearest hospital to try and flush his system for whatever she could’ve given him. How was anyone to know it wasn’t a slow acting poison and not what she claimed it to be?

Lestrade shot off a text to John in an attempt to let him know he could disengage the psychopath.

 

_Shifts over, let’s go get a drink._

 

He hoped John would be able to read it without arousing too much suspicion. She could be armed, there was no way of telling without John physically patting her down and he doubted Mary would permit him to do that. Sherlock continued to moan as he lay, sprawled across the back seat, holding his arms to his chest

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is owned by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and the BBC. We are writing this to fulfil our own perverted desires and earn nothing from this fic other than satisfaction.


	25. Chapter 25

The sun had well past set from when they had walked from Hyde Park over and through the streets of London. Mary was attempting to regale John with stories of all the plans she had with him. Cooking classes, date nights and of course, trying for 'another' baby. She clung to his arm like a teenager and was laughing and smiling. John had tuned her out almost from the moment he had sent Lestrade a text. He was attempting to play the sequence through in his head. _Lestrade gets the text, finds the place, rescues Sherlock, messages him the all clear._ Though he had no way of knowing how fast Lestrade could pinpoint Sherlock’s location. No idea what dangers waited for him at the scene. He had no way of telling how long it would all take.

 

Mary had casually pulled out her phone seemingly every twenty minutes. She tried to do it rather nonchalantly, as if the recurring photo's of Sherlock in various states of distress would put a damper on their night together. If John could just sneak a peek every time she pulled out her phone, at least he knew If Sherlock was still there.

 

As Mary tugged on John's arm to pull him towards a restaurant for dinner, John’s heart ached. He hadn't even realised where they had been. Northumberland Street. Angelo's. No, they couldn't go there. Angelo _himself_ would ask about Sherlock. He had been more than adamant that they were dating. He could only imagine the harmless banter he would try and have with Mary about trying to replace the great detective. He was going to get himself killed.

 

"No, I've uh...heard bad things about that place." He hoped to God she didn't pick up on any of the sheer terror he could feel pulsing through his veins. Where else could he suggest? The only other place that sprung to mind was nearly three miles away on Marylebone Road. God knows they couldn't go there either. Not the scene where Sherlock had first come back to him wearing that stupid french getup. Just to surprise John. Where else. Where else could they go. Think. _Think!_

 

She looked up and into his eyes before smiling.

"We could head down to the Massimo? It's only around the corner."

 

John agreed, attempting to look sincere, "That sounds lovely, Mary."

 

They hadn't made it halfway down the street before Mary's phone alarm went off again. She had kept it quiet, but not so quiet that she couldn't hear it to stop the heroin being administered. Even she knew that if Sherlock died, John wouldn't want to be with her, to say the least. The seemingly happy couple continued down Northumberland Street, Mary reaching down into her coat pocket for, what John estimated to be, the eleventh time tonight. That would make it about three hours since this had started.

 

He played along with the charade, pretending to ignore the phone while interlocked with his wife, taking a casual stroll to their dinner date when Mary stopped in her tracks. He had been playing so well, he had thought. Is she onto him?

 

John tensed and turned to see her staring dangerously and murderously at John which filled him with more terror than he thought imaginable by her hand. It wasn't her that terrified him so much as the thought of what she would do to Sherlock.

 

"What is it? What's the matter?" If she was onto him, playing stupid was just stupid. He'd need to think of something.

 

Mary pursed her lips, jaw clenched and eyes digging into John so deep he could feel her at the back of his skull.

"What have you done?"

_Did she know about Lestrade? Had she learned that he texted him?_

She thrust the phone in front of John's face "What have you _DONE?! Where_ is he?!"

 

The photo was empty. Well, the mattress, the shackle from Sherlock’s ankle and the drip machine remained but Sherlock was gone, leaving only a small puddle where the fluid had leaked from his IV. Timestamped to one minute ago, as the rest had been. John felt a sudden weight lift from his chest before Mary brought it slamming back down again.

"How?! How did you-" She leaned her head back, closed her eyes and took a deep breath. "Fine. Love, its fine. It’s probably Sherlock. That stupid idiot found a way to break out of that shackle. He is brilliant. I keep underestimating him. Though in his state he won’t make it far."

 

She hailed for a cab. Luckily one was passing right by, as if he knew to be there. As he pulled over, Mary pulled out, but hid the Sig Sauer beneath her coat. "You're coming with me. No way am I leaving you to find him before I will. There's no chance." She cocked it and held it, through her coat, aimed at John's back.  Reluctantly he climbed into the cab, bristling as she slid in next to him.

 

"Where to?"

 

Mary gave the directions, insinuating they were sneaking off from the crowded streets of London. There was nothing John could do now. Nothing except hope Lestrade had reached him and that the git wasn't out there on his own. _Just a little longer_ he thought. Soon, he would be sure he wouldn't have to continue with this charade.

 

\--------------------------------------------------------------

 

John knew where they were as soon as they had rounded the corner. Mary was muttering to herself as she pulled the gas lantern from the boot, lit it, and dragged John inside. They traversed around piles of refuse that littered the dim hallway past walls with peeling paint with patches that hadn’t seen daylight in years and others stripped of paint from the constant exposure. The floor was wet with pipes that had rusted and let stagnant water drip steadily feeding dank puddles. It was impossible to tell if other people had passed through here recently, the water was spread so unevenly. Sherlock could have told you instantly by the splash patterns on the wall or some obscure detail, but Mary was too agitated and John too fixated on her and trying to see what was in front of him. Even the walls seemed they might crumble if he breathed too hard, no wonder the place was scheduled to be demolished.

 

The gun tucked into his belt was a comforting weight now as he had no idea how Mary would react when she found Sherlock gone. John looked around wildly as they stepped into the room he recognised from the photos for any sign of officers to help with the arrest. There was no one. Mary dipped her fingers in the puddle that was the only indication of Sherlock’s treatment and rubbed the substance between her fingers. Rounding on John suddenly she snarled

 

“It was you! I don’t know how but you did this!” She held a shaking finger at him, piercing him with an accusatory glare. John put his hands up as though surrendering, fighting to keep his voice level and calm. She had a madness in her eye that made him uneasy, slowly he inched his way until he was between Mary and the doorway.

 

“How could it have been me, Mary? I was with you the whole time.”

 

“Don’t patronise me John, I _know_ you had something to do with it. Playing along a bit too nicely!” She whirled back to look at the stained mattress where Sherlock had been held and felt a bubble of hysterical laughter rise up and echo off the walls. The sound sent chills down John’s spine as he watched Mary slowly descend into the grips of a psychotic break from reality.

 

“Mary, calm down, its okay, it’s all over now.” While she cradled her head in her hands and began sobbing, John snaked his hand around to his weapon and removed it carefully from his waistband. The weight was comforting, his last resort.

 

“I just wanted us to be happy, John. Happy families, happy husband, happy wife.” Mary’s mascara bled down her face as she cried, the motion of wiping it away only smudged it further slowly dismantling the mask she had put on to play the good wife.

 

“We still can be -” John began but Mary shook her head and laughed with hitched breath.

 

“Oh John, you and I both know where your loyalties lie. Where your love lies. Where you lie.” She turned to stare at the empty shackle pointedly and John felt his stomach tighten. So it was to be like this, then? He refused to follow her gaze and stared instead at the empty desk where she had surely taken the photos she had sent him. How could she possibly understand? He barely understood himself, let alone discuss this with the psychotic ex-assassin who is still in love with him. If people of those sorts of occupations could really have those sorts of emotions.

 

“Mary, none of that started until after-” Mary interrupted him in the middle of his explanation, shaking her head ever more aggressively

 

“Don’t try that with me! I told you, I know you better than anyone. Better even than him! I knew when we first met that you loved him. At first, I thought it was a silly attachment, especially considering that he forced you to watch him take his own life.” Mary seemed to be taking joy in watching john’s reaction as he winced painfully, remembering the jump, the body, the blood. In the months to follow he struggled with not joining the detective, struggled to survive at all.

“And of course, when he returned and I saw the way he looks at you when you’re not watching. I knew then. And yet, you married me.” She added the last statement as an after thought and tucked a stray curl of hair behind her ear. “Why was that John? Why did you marry me?”

John’s hand trembled distractingly, he shoved it away in his pocket before deciding against it and instead let it hang near his hip. In his jacket the hand was useless should the circumstances call for reaction. Why _did_ he marry her? Because she seemed perfect. A perfectly normal housewife, comely receptionist, laughed at his jokes and seemed stable. Now, she was anything but.

 

“I don’t know, Mary. Sherlock was dead and then there you were.” John sighed, shifting his weight uncomfortably until an unsettling thought hit him. “ _And then there you were_. Tell me something, since the truths are finally revealing themselves. Did you wait until he was dead to make your move? How do I know you weren’t one of the hitmen with a red dot aimed at my chest forcing him to jump?” His voice raised slightly, magnified by the hard empty walls of the abandoned office.

 

John looked at Mary with shock on his face as she smiled wryly and tutted.

 

“You were _very_ slow.” She watched him register the full extent of his deduction and almost felt a pang of emotion for her husband. John shook his head, it was one revelation that she wasn’t his wife but was actually a mercenary using him to disappear into suburbia but for her to be involved with Moriarty.

 

“And then you pounced. You knew I was grieving and you had a small window to fill the hole he left….” John spoke slowly in disbelief but slowly, so slowly, it became clear. She used him.

 

“And then he came back. And he’s been filling that hole quite rigorously from what I can tell.” Mary quipped, another hysterical giggle accompanying the crude innuendo.

 

“SHUT UP! You don’t get to talk about him like that!” John shouted at her defensively.

 

“He will never love you like I could. Using all the time when you’re not watching him, lying to you, he can’t even feel love John, not like I can. But you won’t settle for me will you?” Mary was suddenly serious, staring into his eyes with her own wide ones. “You’d rather stay with him? Your dangerous detective, trawling you through the streets of London instead of wrapped up at home with your loving family.”

 

“Shut up. I’m warning you, you get no say in this.” John growled, pointing an aggressive finger in her direction. “Just shut up. You have no idea what he’s capable of, how could you. You are nothing alike.”

 

“Oh John, we are two sides of the same, cold coin. We both needed you to fulfil a role in our lives. For me, the facade of a happy family and for him to replace his addiction. He doesn't really love you, John.” Mary dipped her fingers into her bag as she stared at John with a half smile on her face.

 

John reacted purely on reflexes. He saw the glint of metal catch the light and raised his gun instantly. Before she even had the time to pull out her hand back out John had fired, leaving a small, ragged hole between her eyes. His hands did not waver as he pulled the trigger, solid and steady she was dead before her body crumpled to the ground. It wasn’t until his ears began to ring from the explosion of sound in such an enclosed space that he realised what she had been reaching for. Between her fingers was her compact mirror, not a weapon.

 

John stared at Mary’s body, at the mirror in her hand and backed away, his hands outstretched feeling for the wall behind him. Leaning heavily against it he stared at the gun in his hand and back to the body that had been his wife as his legs threatened to buckle. John had been so certain she was pulling out a gun to end it, to end both of them. So certain that the glint of metal took over his muscle memory and he had fired without even registering when he pulled the trigger. Pulling in a few deep breaths he suppressed the overwhelming urge to run away and moved closer, kneeling next to Mary’s body.

 

Of course, he had known how it was going to end. Before he had even set foot in this room, once Sherlock had been taken out of the equation there were very few options left. Leaving Mary alive was not one of them. It couldn’t be, she would never leave them be. He slipped his hand into her pocket and retrieved her phone, in almost a daze he noticed the faint specks of blood that painted his fingers and looked down to see his shirt afflicted similarly. He had killed before, intentionally and unintentionally, but not like this.

 

He rose to his feet, tearing off his jacket and fumbling uselessly at the buttons of his shirt. His fingers shaking and so very uncooperative. John could feel the blood sink in through his shirt and burn into his skin. He needed to be free of it. He drew in heavy breaths as the fabric suddenly clung so constricting against his lungs. John tore the shirt off and threw it as hard as he could, as far away as he could, begging to catch the breath it had stolen from him. It sagged pitifully against a wall and fell to the dirt below. No. No. He still couldn't breathe.

 

He turned back to her. That bloody woman. She had been his everything when he had nothing. But she hadn't. But she was. And now she's nothing again. Less than a second. She wasn't anything anymore. There wasn't anything left. No Mary. No wife. No dimple in her cheek when she smiled. No playful teasing when he had shaved for Sherlock Holmes.

 

No lies. No kidnapping and no.. no. There was nothing left. He dropped to his knees. The lack of oxygen finally pushing through the adrenaline and threatening to take the night away from him. He looked to her lifeless eyes staring vacantly from her face. A trail of blood slowly oozing from the entry wound down her cheek like a solitary tear, coagulating where it met the floor. John whispered so very shakily.

"No. No more lies." She couldn't. Couldn't hurt him. Couldn't lie to him _again_. She would never be able to hurt them again. Not by her own hand. Not as the final piece of Moriarty's web. Now it was over. He could finally go back. Back to Baker Street.

 

Johns breathing began to slow. He looked around the room and found it perfectly still, his head regained its focus. He would be going home. As he realised what that finally meant, he leant back on his knees and looked to her again and for the last time. He moved down, and gave her a small, chaste kiss on her cheek. The cheek free from the blood and violence that epitomised her slow descent into insanity over the last few months. He kissed his wife. "Thank you."

 

She had been his everything once. She had been the one to keep him grounded when all he wanted was to fly away and be with Sherlock. If it wasn't for her.. If it wasn't for her Sherlock would have had no one to come back to and would have all been for nothing.

 

For that alone, he would thank her a thousand times over. He rose to his feet, feeling the catharsis pour over him and wash away again like a wave. John retrieved his shirt and slowly dressed himself, no longer feeling the restriction. He took his coat before stopping in the doorway on his way out of the room. He took in one deep breath, whispered "Goodbye, Mary" and exited the building, stepping out to a cool London breeze beneath a moonless sky.

 

He waited until he had left the warehouse before fumbling through his coat pocket and seeing a missed message from Lestrade.

 

 _Shifts over, let’s go get a drink_.   John smiled.

 

John tapped the screen to dial the Detective Inspector. He had to take care of Sherlock and he imagined he'd be needing him right about now.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is owned by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and the BBC. We are writing this to fulfil our own perverted desires and earn nothing from this fic other than satisfaction.


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The image that inspired the end of this chapter was by SH2JW and their incredible work can be found on tumblr. This is the image we were inspired by:
> 
> http://sh2jw.tumblr.com/image/55253840526

John flung the door of the cab to the side and exited as fast as his body could carry him. In the back seat he had watched London fly by, anxiously willing the vehicle to move faster.  He thrust a handful of banknotes at the driver and hurried through the door to 221b Baker Street. John was overcome with a flood of emotions. On one hand it was finally over, he was home to the warmth and safety of his world. On the other, he had no idea to the extent of what Mary had put Sherlock through. She could have done anything to him to force him to take that drug. The photographs and still frames he had seen of the detective had not shown any major injury, but just as grievous wounds could be inflicted without much external evidence. He found himself pausing at the foot of the door before tensing his left hand and pushing through.

 

Sherlock was spread across the sofa, facing the wall. His hair a mess, his clothes stained and torn. But there he was. Gently sleeping. Actually, properly sleeping. John let out a sigh of relief and closed his eyes briefly. He was here. He was home. He peered over and saw his wrists and his ankle in a terrible state. Skin torn and red. He'd have to dress them before they got infected. God only knows what filth was in that place that Sherlock was exposed to.

 

John turned to the kitchen to gently placed his keys and phone on the bench before facing the detective inspector sipping a mug of tea. Lestrade crinkled up his face at the tea and placed it back on the bench, pushing it away with a thick finger.  
“This stuff is awful. You guys need beer.”  
John smiled and let out a quiet laugh, so as to not wake Sherlock.  
“You said on the phone he refused medical treatment?” John enquired with a smirk as he imagined the faces of the poor nurses at Barts.

“He’s a stubborn bastard that's for sure. He told them he had a doctor that was more than qualified to take care of any and all needs that should arise.” Lestrade answered with a knowing smirk on his face. John smiled, he could just imagine Sherlock informing the nurses of their incompetence compared to Doctor Watson. He didn’t think he had smiled this way in a long time. He turned back to look at his detective, passed out from exhaustion and who knew what else.  
“He does.”  
  
Lestrade poured the contents of the mug down the kitchen sink with a disgusted look on his face before turning to grab his coat from where it lay across the table.  
“Right, well you’re here now. I’ll leave you to patch him up. I’ll write up what I can about the last forty-eight hours but John - ”  
“I’ll fill you in when he’s all sorted.” John brought up his hand and it was met with a sturdy shake from Lestrade. “Thank you. Thank you Greg. Without you - “

“I know.” Lestrade smiled. He gave John a quick nod and let himself out leaving John to tend to the stubbornly loyal Sherlock.

 

John gathered some basic cleaning equipment and silently made his way across the living room. He rested it on the coffee table in front of the sofa and tried to squeeze in to sit next to Sherlock. Gently he resting his hand on his shoulder he gave him a tentative nudge.

 

"Sherlock..." He hated to wake him. He knew that Sherlock never got much sleep and he would need it after everything he had been through but he needed to get his wounds cleaned first. "Sherlock.."

 

Sherlock slowly opened his eyes as if reluctant to return to reality, he groaned and sucked in a deep breath. Feeling a warm and familiar hand on his shoulder he turned to face his doctor. Sherlock was met with a gentle smile and his doctor’s eyes. Eyes that could change from the deep blue of a midnight storm, to the rich brown of winter trees at twilight and to grey. Not a dull grey like concrete or stone, but the grey of the last ashes of a fire. Right at that moment, he was captured in his brilliant shade of blue.

 

He jolted upright, grabbing his doctor by the back of his neck and drawing him deep into a long and needy kiss. John had come back.

 

John was taken by surprise, but had no intentions of pulling away. He had been so immeasurably worried about Sherlock and what may have happened. He allowed all that to melt away and savoured the kiss. He brought his hand from Sherlock's shoulder and around to his back, closing the gap between them.

 

After a long and beautiful moment, Sherlock brought his head back but kept his forehead pressed against John’s.

"Graham said you were with _her_. When you didn't reply to him I thought -"

John smiled and whispered. "It’s over. Sherlock its over."

John pressed his lips to him once more before gently pushing Sherlock back to the sofa. "I do, however, need to tend to these," gesturing at his various wounds, "because some stubborn git wouldn't let the hospital staff near him".

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"I had to come back to try and get in contact with you. They would just keep me in for observations and tedious examinations. It was with the utmost importance that I made sure you were alright."

"Sherlock, you fell asleep on the couch." John quipped playfully as he set out the medical equipment on the table, preparing gauze and and cleaning alcohols. Sherlock squinted and smirked

"I thought you would be happy. You're always pestering me to get some sleep. I just didn't think sleep would come so quickly"

"After everything you've been through, I'll let you sleep till the end of the week. If it doesn't bore you to death."

Sherlock smiled and watched his doctor methodically prepare.

 

John spent a good half hour carefully cleansing and disinfecting his wrists and his ankle, much to Sherlock's displeasure and wincing. He also applied cream to the aggravated skin around his bicep where the duct tape had help the drip in place. If he was to tend to the detective properly, he needed to know about the wounds he couldn't see. With any other patient, asking about a traumatic event was a delicate situation, however, with Sherlock John hoped he would be able to distance himself from the emotions linked to it.

"Sherlock.. what did she do to you? I need to know so I can treat you with the correct stuff."

 

Sherlock barely hesitated and recounted the events as though it happened to a victim in a case they were researching.

"She injected me with some form of sedative and then forced me to remain awake. She blasted this god-awful noise through rather unfortunately high quality headphones and blindfolded me so that all trail of thought would be constantly interrupted."

John looked up at him with such sad eyes. It should never have been allowed to get to this stage.

"Sherlock Holmes without his mind palace..." He paused. "It must have been maddening"

 

Sherlock knew what videos she had sent to John. Mary had enjoyed detailing exactly how she imagined John would react when Sherlock was awake.  John knew he had begged for the drug but what else was he to do?

"John.. You have to know.. I didn't want to -" He waved a hand at the needle entry mark on his arm but John placed a reassuring hand over Sherlock’s wrist and shook his head gently.

 

"Sherlock, I know. What's important now is just making sure it's out of your system. It's not your fault. Please don't blame yourself. She forced you to do this. I know that." John had finished cleaning and dressing Sherlock's various cuts and contusions. Now they had to deal with the harder ones. The ones that could be patched up and forgotten about. He sat up and moved to the coffee table in front of him, sitting to face his detective. This wasn't going to be pleasant but it needed to be said.

 

"Mary.. was the last piece of Moriarty's web.." Sherlock furrowed his brow and his eyes widened. "She was among the ones who was watching me.. watch .. your fall.. through a scope. To make sure you complied." John fought back a quivering breath. Though he was coming to terms with it, it still pained him greatly to think of it. His future wife, staring coldly at him down the sights of a sniper rifle. He could only imagine the effect it would have on Sherlock who had spent two years trying to track them all down.

 

Sherlock, for once, was speechless. He had done _everything_. For two years he had scoured every corner of this miserable country and beyond, hunting the people that had threatened John's life. He had spent two years away from him, making sure he was safe only to now find out he was living with and in turn, married one.

 

"I know, Sherlock. It's alright though. She's gone now." His jaw and his fist clenched as he recounted that reflexive moment."I shot her."

 

John had shot and killed his wife. Yet he seemed almost casual about it? Maybe not casual but not the mess he thought he would be. He had expressed multiple times that he wanted this to end in a non violent way. Wanted justice to be served. Even after everything John couldn't bear the thought of her dead. And now he was the one that made it so.

 

Oh. Sentiment. Sherlock knew there was something people said in this situation. As if shooting your wife was a normal everyday occurrence?

 

"I'm.. Sorry?" Sherlock said with an almost upward inflection. "Are.. you... -" Sherlock questioned and felt idiotic at his poor choice of words, "- alright?"

 

John knew exactly what Sherlock had meant and it made him smile to see him try. They both knew how the detective was with sensitive topics that dealt with human emotion.

"Sherlock it’s fine. As much as I hated what had happened to her -" He sighed. _May as well say it_. If he didn't he would hold onto it forever and even though Sherlock was no good at these situations, John needed to say it out loud. "- She's the reason you still had me to come home to."

 

Sherlock raised his eyebrow. _How_? She had been the very thing in his way since returning. She had married him and whisked him off on a sex holiday and kept John from him. _How_ in the hell did anything good come from that lie of a woman.

 

"After you left.. There were so many times I wanted to... follow you." John looked at Sherlock expectantly. Still a raised eyebrow. _Ok._ "I almost did" _.. Really Sherlock?_ He rolled his eyes. "Off the roof of Barts…." He couldn’t look at Sherlock, couldn’t meet his eye as the detective realised exactly what John was trying to say. After all the horrors he had witnessed at war, this was the catalyst to his destruction?

 

Sherlock sat paralysed. Had he been that affected by the loss of the detective? He knew it would hurt him immensely but he would never have thought that John, _his_ strong and good doctor would have even considered it. Sherlock could not imagine a life without his John, not now.

 

"It was Mary that made sure I would be here when you got back. Don't get me wrong, I will never forgive her for everything she put us through. But Sherlock... I am thankful she was there." John looked down, almost ashamed to admit what had remained unsaid since Sherlock’s miraculous return.

 

Sherlock smiled and cupped John's cheek in his palm and stroked it gently with his thumb. John leaned into his hand and smiled. Sherlock couldn't imagine what he would have done if he _had_ come home to a world without John.

"Then so am I."

 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

Of all the days to forget his umbrella. He had only gone down the road to pick up some milk and almost on queue it had started raining as he left the supermarket.

 

“Bloody hell”, he muttered under his breath. He hitched his jumper up above his head, trying to shield himself from the increasingly pounding rain. As he headed to the side of the kerb, it seemed every cabbie in London was avoiding him. _God I hate mondays_. Today had been particularly rough. He hadn’t had enough sleep the night before, he'd prepared two cups of tea before realising only too late the milk they had in the fridge had _long_ expired. Dealing with a psychotic wife who was now an 'ex' in every possible way just didn’t allow time to nip out for groceries. That and he had another bloody row with that stupid chip and pin machine was just the tip of the iceberg of why today had been particularly horrible. The rain was just the icing on the cake.

 

After what seemed like half an eternity, a cabbie finally pulled over for John. He shook off the worst of the rain and panted “221b Baker Street” at the driver. He’d be home soon. Home to his bed and his warmth. _And his detective._

 

He paid the driver and ran towards the door, fumbling his keys and dropping them - of course - before finally making it through the door. He paused at the foot of the stairs to catch his breath, hung his soaked jumper over the rack and proceeded upstairs. Desperate for today to end.

 

“Sherlock?” He removed his shoes and left them by the door as he hurried in, looking for the one thing that could make his day better.

 

Sherlock casually passed right in front of him, focused on tuning the strings of his violin, and barely seemed to acknowledge that he was there.

 

“Its going to rain, we should close the windows.”

 

John rolled his eyes and spoke through gritted teeth, “Thanks”.

 

Sherlock made his way to his chair and slumped down into it. “Thanks, I’d love a tea”

 

He couldn’t help but smile. He could be the most arrogant git in the world but he could never hate him. He seemed to have an eternal amount of patience for the man. He’d care for him till the end of the world.

 

John put away what little groceries he had picked up while he was out and put the kettle on. He pulled two cups from the cupboard and prepared them to his detective’s liking. Sherlock liked the way John made tea for him and anyway, if John could get Sherlock to ingest something it was always good. As he stood waiting for the kettle to boil, he turned to look at Sherlock.

 

He was clearly bored. The poor thing hadn’t had a case in a few days and it didn’t take much for his massive intellect to become irritated at the monotony of day to day life.

 

John had found that his irritation with the world today, upon seeing Sherlock, had completely melted away. He seemed to have that effect on John. It didn't matter what sort of awful situation John had found himself in, simply being in the presence of Sherlock would make him feel whole. Safe.  
  
  
_Aroused._  
  


He became hypnotised as Sherlock’s fingers delicately plucked and caressed the strings of the violin. He had watched profoundly as those fingers would pick apart a crime scene and examine every detail. He had seen those fingers used on him and the very thought of it sent a jolt of electricity straight to his cock. The expert musician began a slow, lilting melody with long, broad strokes of the bow. Bending with each stroke as if totally absorbed in his music, his face soft and relaxed as only in very few circumstances.

 

John had had enough. He watched as Sherlock rose gracefully from his seat and slowly made his way to the window before skulking up behind him and placing his hands on his shoulders. Sherlock paused briefly but continued as John ran his hands down, following his spine to the man’s hips. To his credit, Sherlock did not utter a single sound, even as John pressed up against him, running his fingers round and up to the lowest button of his shirt. He rested his cheek on the detective’s back, nimble fingers unhooking the button and tugging the shirt out from the expensive trousers. The music faltered and John paused, waiting for Sherlock to resume. Sherlock of course, understood the rules of the game immediately and watched their reflection in the window greedily, the arm snaked around the the fingers dipping below his waistband.

 

It was intoxicating to watch as John caressed his hands along the smooth shirt and palm across his increasing arousal. Struggling to retain his focus on the music he murmured softly

 

“John…” The smaller man hummed in agreement behind him

 

“Its okay.” John moved around and ran his hand up Sherlock’s right, holding it briefly before prying the instrument gently away and placing it reverently on the side table. He returned to stand in front of the taller man, starting from the top of his shirt he undid each button until the shirt hung open from Sherlock’s shoulders. The view was nothing less than exquisite. The flush on his cheeks spread down his neck and tinged his chest. John placed a warm hand across the bare chest and dragged his palm down the warm skin until he could tuck his fingers into the front of Sherlock’s trousers. Pulling the man towards him he leant up to capture the detective's mouth in his. Leaning into the kiss, Sherlock wrapped his arms around John, slipping his hands beneath the material. Greedily he divested the doctor of his jumper and made short work of his shirt, pulling it off and discarding it on the ground.

 

John Watson. Shirtless and breathless. The two stared at each other until John motioned the detective towards him. Sherlock came willingly, nuzzling the top of John’s head as John’s hand busied themselves with his pants.

 

“Let me know if it's too much.” He mumbled into the detective’s chest and gently nudged him back until his knees hit the edge of the sofa. Graceful as ever Sherlock fell back into the couch, pulling John with him and onto his lap. John happily complied, climbing on top of Sherlock and straddling his lap he took the dark curled man’s head in his hands and kissed him gently.

 

“When you play music like that, I damn near lose my mind.” John growled into Sherlock’s ear, giving it a soft nip before returning for another kiss.

 

“John….” Sherlock ran his hands up the man’s bare back as John showed his expertise. Tasting and touching what had been within arm’s distance for so long. It was torture to go slowly, to unwrap Sherlock piece by piece and watch him unravel. But John remembered Sherlock’s brief comments about his previous lovers, and wanted to be nothing like them. The feeling of Sherlock’s fingers across his back, he was cataloging him, seeing what garnered a reaction and what made him squirm.

 

He could barely restrain himself as slender fingers slipped around his waist and pressed him down for the friction of it.

“John, please.” He ground down on the pleading man who groaned into John’s hair. “I need more.” John responded in earnest, grinding down in slow, lazy pulses.

 

“Your place or mine?” He grinned into Sherlock’s neck as the detective bodily picked him up off the couch, John’s legs wrapped around his waist. Setting the doctor back on his feet they couldn’t contain their sheepish smiles as Sherlock nodded towards the stairs. “Yours then. You first, so I can enjoy the view.” Sherlock rolled his eyes but couldn’t conceal the flattered smile.

 

As Sherlock started up the stairs, John ducked into his room. After a quick rummage in his bedside table he pocketed a small bottle and skipped up the stairs to Sherlock’s room. His breath caught in his chest as he spotted the detective stepping out of his trousers and sitting back on his bed.

 

“Come along, John.” He patted his knees. Entranced, John nudged the door shut and stood between the detective’s knees. Leaning forward Sherlock hooked his fingers into the belt loops of John’s jeans and pulled him forward to kiss his stomach. John entwined his hand through Sherlock’s curls, carding his fingers through it as the kisses lowered. Unhitching the belt he let them fall to the ground, gradually he mouthed down over the remaining fabric until John’s legs almost buckled. If this was any of John’s usual conquests, they’d already have been in John’s bed halfway finished but that would have felt wrong with his detective. Moving this slowly, treading so carefully had John hard and leaking beneath Sherlock’s ministrations.

 

“Oh God…” He had to work hard to stay still and resist the instinct to move towards the source of pleasure. “This okay?”

 

“Shut up John, I’m busy.” John smiled, nodded then gasped loudly as Sherlock tugged his pants down tentatively licked the precome that had collected at the tip. John fought against pulling Sherlock towards him as the man swirled his tongue around the head of his cock. Who knew that the detective could use his tongue in circumstances other than snide comments and personal deductions? John made a mental note to ask Sherlock, until seconds later when rational thought fled his brain entirely.

 

Sherlock didn’t pause as he swallowed John’s cock, making the swallowing motion he knew he had felt when John had done the same to him in his chair. This was apparently the correct maneuver as John made a strangled cry and slid his hands down to Sherlock’s shoulders, pressing down in an attempt to stay upright.

 

“Where’d you learn that?” John choked out as Sherlock surfaced, licking his lips and staring up at John, his hand still stroking his cock.

 

“From you. Obviously.” His voice was slightly raspy with less condescension than usually applied. John kicked off his pants until he stood completely naked before the detective. He watched as the man silently appraised him, he knew he had put on a few pounds since the war but he still liked to think he was in shape. And so did the detective if his reaction was anything to go by, flushed cheeks and eyes that darted from one point of interest to another.

 

“Alright, That’s enough cheek from you.” John leant into Sherlock and straddled him, pushing lightly against his shoulders until Sherlock complied and lay down on the bed resting back on his elbows.

 

“You’re beautiful like this you know.” He stared at the virtually naked man and drank in the sight. His pale skin a stark opposite to the rich, dark covers. Eyes wide and pupils blown he didn’t need to look at the straining cloth between his legs to know that Sherlock was definitely aroused.

 

“You’re not so bad yourself.” Sherlock replied lazily, lifting his hips as John pulled at his pants. The detective was truly a beautiful man. In the army John had seen many, many naked men mostly fit, young and healthy. But never had he appreciated the male form as much as in that moment. With the detective on the bed, almost awaiting instruction, and unable to take his eyes of John’s body.

 

John dragged his jeans over to him with a dextrous foot, lifting it to his hands he fished out the bottle and deposited it on the side table. Dropping his jeans back to the floor he kissed his way up from Sherlock’s knees, leaving a trail of nips and soothing kisses he skirted around where Sherlock wanted it most until he met the man’s lips.

 

“Sherlock….”  The man ran his hands down John’s back, cupping his arse and pulling him down.

 

“Roll over.” Sherlock suggested, nudging the man on top of him with his knee.

 

“Are you sure you….” John began but Sherlock urged him on.

 

“I said _roll over_ , John.” He ducked to his side, taking the detective with him until he was on his back, his knees either side of Sherlock’s waist and the detective leaning over him and cataloging him again.

 

“I’m not a piece of meat, you know.” John commented dryly, until Sherlock took his cock and gave it several long strokes, circling his thumb at the top. He moaned and clutched at Sherlock’s arm that was supporting his weight as he stared into John’s face, matching each expression with a particular flick of his thumb or twist of his wrist.

 

“Do shut up, John.” The detective chastised him gently, relieving his hand momentarily he retrieved the bottle from the table, flicked open the cap and squeezed out a generous amount of lube into his palm. John could do nothing but watch, his lips slightly parted as if he was about to speak but had forgotten how. Sherlock dragged his hand from root to tip and noted the totally different reaction. John threw his head back onto the pillow and bucked his hips. _Sensitive_. Leaning back he started a slow rhythm of stroking, his other hand snaking below to massage the sensitive area beneath his balls. He smirked as John moaned lewdly and let out a small string of jumbled up curse words.

 

He had learnt that John preferred to be the receptive partner, which suited Sherlock as he had never been a receiver. It had surprised him when he first discovered that fact, the detective had assumed that since John frequently dated women that he would be uncomfortable to submit to another man. Sherlock made a mental note to try and discover why that was so and earmarked it in John’s Wing.

 

John fisted the sheets as Sherlock shuffled forward, forcing his knees to rest against the detective’s chest. He had decided it was the anticipation which made this venture all the more appealing, waiting for Sherlock to make all the moves meant he had to wait. He moved his lubed fingers to John’s entrance and circled it with increasing pressure until a digit slipped into the willing body beneath him. John moaned and moved his hips for more to which Sherlock complied. Pushing another finger in he watched John’s face intently, every movement, every centimeter until he was buried in John.

 

“Fuck….yes….” It happened in an instant, one second the doctor’s face was relaxed and the next he had brushed across the sensitive gland hidden within and John’s eyes flew open, for once the man was wordless. Sherlock smirked as it dawned on him, he was so receptive because his prostate was hyper sensitive. How interesting. Using this new piece of John-Knowledge to his advantage he curled his fingers, leaning on John’s legs for more leverage and mercilessly probing him.

 

He started a faster pattern, between his fist around John’s leaking cock to his fingers fiendishly teasing his prostate, John was dangerously close to unravelling altogether.

“Sher...ngh…. Sherlock… I’m gonna… fuck….. finish early….ugh…..if you keep going!” He managed the full sentence around moans and expletives that he couldn’t restrain. “Give me you!”

 

Sherlock couldn’t deny his lover a request put so eloquently. Quickly slicking up his own arousal he guided himself to John’s entrance and looked up at him. Meeting his eyes John nodded, shifting his legs over the detective’s shoulders he watched as Sherlock slowly sank into his warmth. Hissing through his teeth as he was stretched further than the two fingers that had been replaced John watched Sherlock. He felt full, it was always an alien feeling, but watching Sherlock’s face sent nothing but electricity straight to his groin. His eyes closed but his face blissful as Sherlock sank inch by inch until he bottomed out where he stilled momentarily. Sherlock clutched at John’s thighs, it was tight and warm and overwhelmingly good. Pulling back slowly he noted the exact time that John jerked as he dragged his cock along John’s prostate, watching his arousal twitch helplessly on his stomach.

 

Finding that sweet spot he began shallowly thrusting, making sure to rub that same spot over and over without reprieve. John had lost all capabilities of speech and instead fisted the sheets desperately as he couldn’t reach the detective. Taking one hand to circle around his own cock John whined pathetically as Sherlock batted it away. The detective was very interested to see if he could make his blogger come without any contact at all, and judging by the precome that was practically dribbling down John’s arousal he predicted it entirely possible.

 

“Come along John.” He managed between breathy moans, leaning forward into the doctor until John’s legs were almost touching his own chest. John’s eyes flew open as he felt himself unbelievably coming without anything touching his cock.

 

“Sherlock!” He bucked beneath the detective, his come spurting across his chest and catching himself on the cheek. Closing his eyes as bliss overtook him, Sherlock didn’t think he had ever seen anything so beautiful as John coming completely undone beneath him and took a mental snapshot. He began thrusting harder, faster, he was so close to his own climax he barely needed to move. John’s rhythmic clenches around his cock were almost enough to bring him over the edge on their own. Without pulling out he managed to coerce John over onto his stomach, his full weight lay upon the doctor as he thrust into his arse. Sherlock put his arms beneath John’s chest, holding the man’s hands as he covered his body with his own and upped the pace seeking his own undoing.

 

John saw colourful sparks fly beneath his eyelids as Sherlock inadvertently thrust against his prostate in this new position, almost over-sensitive he moaned, moving his head to the side so he could gulp in dizzying breaths.

 

“Oh…. John…..” Sherlock’s body shuddered as he came, clutching at the smaller man beneath him he emptied himself in short, jerky thrusts and collapsed to the side without pulling out.  Rolling John with him he hugged the satiated man to him and nuzzled into his neck as he enjoyed the lazy aftershocks of his climax.

 

“Sherlock, I…”

 

“Yes I know, John.” After a few minutes of lazy, content silence John pulled Sherlock’s fingers to his mouth and kissed them. “I should play my violin more often.” They both smiled, John huffing out a tired laugh as Sherlock leant down and licked the stray streak of John’s come from his cheek.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is owned by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and the BBC. We are writing this to fulfil our own perverted desires and earn nothing from this fic other than satisfaction.


	27. Epilogue

Anthea held the door open for her employer with one hand, the other holding a blackberry and tapping quickly with her thumb. He nodded at her as she slipped back into the sleek, black car and sat in the back seat. The elder Holmes knocked on the front door of 221b Baker street but received no response. Trying the handle he rolled his eyes as he found it unlocked. He proceeded to let himself into the building, subconsciously straightening the latch for the hundredth time before allowing the door to click shut behind him. He had been away on urgent matters of state and had returned as soon as he had heard about Mary’s misdeeds concerning his brother. Too late, as it turned out. He had been informed that Sherlock had left the hospital against medical advice, however, this was not unusual for Sherlock since he had his own perfectly qualified live-in doctor. As he climbed the stairs he expected to hear sounds of domesticity, John berating him about an experiment gone awry or the discordant plucking of Sherlock’s violin strings but he found it curiously quiet.

 

Pushing open the door, he stepped into their living space and looked around, taking in the evidence of their activities. Sherlock’s shirt, crumpled on the ground alongside John’s, removed in a hurry perhaps. Instead of finding his brother in the living room he heard a lewd, breathy moan that was instantly muffled by something. _So that’s how it is then? About time_. He wouldn’t be much of a big brother if he didn’t check up on his younger sibling’s welfare properly, now would he? Climbing the stairs silently he almost blushed as he heard a deep baritone groan followed by higher, muffled ones.

“John!” Sherlock gasped, Mycroft recognised his brother’s voice instantly. Though he had never heard him in the throes of passion the voice was undeniably that of his brother’s. How awkward. Sherlock would probably not be as bothered to be discovered by him as his lover would be. Mycroft wondered just how red John’s face would be when he revealed himself.

 

Waiting until he was directly outside the partly ajar door he caught a glimpse of the two men. Sherlock sat up against the headboard, his hands firmly tangled in the sandy hair of his enthusiastic lover’s head that was busy in his groin. Retreating into the hallway he very deliberately and very audibly cleared his throat. The regular, wet sounds stopped abruptly and a very hoarse John Watson swore loudly.

 

“Mrs. Hudson?” John called out tentatively. Sherlock chuckled and shook his head knowing instantly who their visitor would be.

 

“‘Fraid not, John. It would appear my brother has finally taken an interest in my welfare.”

 

“Always a pleasure, Sherlock.” Mycroft replied brightly.

 

“Mycroft? Bloody hell…..” Mycroft heard the jingle of a belt attached to trousers that were being roughly put on and John calling him vulgar names under his breath.

 

Seconds later John’s face appeared at the door, a deep shade of red from his ears down to his collarbone.

“Where the hell have you been?” He growled angrily and grabbed Mycroft’s suit lapels, pushing him aggressively against the wall. To his credit, Mycroft did not try to defend himself, such an act against a veteran in this state would only be futile and result in more unsavoury violence. He raised his eyebrows and looked steadily back, he could see Sherlock in the corner of his eye shrugging on his dressing gown and standing in the door frame with his arms crossed and a smug grin on his face. Clearly Sherlock was not going to intervene on behalf of his brother, instead enjoying John’s treatment with great mirth.

 

“All your surveillance, all your money and power and what for? What’s the point if you aren’t reachable when shit hits the fan!” John thrust him against the wall again, Mycroft’s usually impassive face now somewhat concerned.

 

“John, I was dealing with incredibly important -” He started trying to explain but John shook his head and pressed harder.

 

“What, more important than your own brother? He could have died!” An angry John was a forced to be reckoned with, but where Sherlock was concerned John went beyond reason and control.

 

“John, I don’t expect you to understand but -” Mycroft did not manage to get his last sentence out as John’s fist connected with his cheek, dropping the elder Holmes to the ground. Sherlock stared, mouth slightly open and eyebrows disappearing into his hair as he committed the scene to memory. John was usually disciplined enough not to let his anger take over, even in high pressure situations.

 

“Understand _that_ , Mycroft. You idiot.” John rubbed his knuckles and stepped over the dazed man, heading down the stairs the Holmes men stayed still, listening to him swearing to himself and bang around cups. Mycroft stayed on the ground until the hallway stopped spinning and winced as the ache settled in.

 

“Hello Mycroft.” Sherlock greeted his brother, looking down at him as Mycroft got back to his feet rubbing his jaw.

 

“Your doctor has quite the left hook, Sherlock.” He commented dryly. “I trust that all is well, then?”

 

“Quite. As usual, your interruption is unwelcome, if you’re quite done upsetting John, you may leave.” Sherlock was as abrupt with his brother as always, though his smug smile had not abated, especially after John’s uncharacteristic show of violence.

 

“I would have been here Sherlock, but you know what my job entails.” Mycroft sounded like he was almost pleading for understanding, as much as his pride would allow. He did feel partially guilty for being absent but the British government will not run itself.

 

“Yes, I know. _Terribly important_ matters. I understand completely, but it's not my forgiveness you should be seeking. It’s his.” Sherlock looked pointedly down the stairs to where John was cursing at the fridge for not yielding the milk bottle and smirked. “That will be infinitely harder to obtain. Good day, Mycroft.” Sweeping past him he trotted down the stairs and straight to the kitchen to put his arms around John from behind. John grumbled momentarily until Sherlock rested his chin on his head and he seemed to settle, albeit grumbling.

 

They stayed that way, Sherlock’s arms around John’s waist and the shorter man making two cups of tea until Mycroft walked through the living room. Disentangling himself Sherlock kept his hand on the doctor’s wrist below the counter as they both watched the man leave.

 

“John, Sherlock.” Mycroft murmured softly, nodding at them both before disappearing down the stairs. There was a brief silence where neither man moved, broken only by a John’s giggle.

 

“Reckon that will bruise?” He looked up and over his shoulder at Sherlock who grinned back at him.

 

“Oh, absolutely.” Laughing, John returned to the tea and Sherlock, after planting a quick kiss on his cheek, collapsed into his chair smiling at the new memory he was storing in the John Wing. John slipped into his own chair opposite Sherlock and flicked open the paper scanning it without really paying attention. Sherlock’s eyes drifted to where his violin sat, abandoned on the table and shot a wicked grin at John. Reaching for the instrument he recalled the wicked events spurred by his last practice session and plucked at a string. John’s eyes appeared over the paper immediately and met Sherlock’s.

 

“Your place or mine?”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you! Thank you for reading!! There will be a sequel but god only knows when. This took a month to write so hopefully we can get another one out in around about the same time ;)
> 
> If you like, come find me at http://toomanyships-sendhelp.tumblr.com/ for Johnlock and Destiel trash <3


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